


Real Men Wear Kilts

by lightspire



Category: due South
Genre: Case Fic, Celtic music, Celtic mythology and folklore, First Kiss, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Humor, Kilts, M/M, More Innuendo than you can shake a stick at, Music Festival, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-14
Updated: 2018-10-18
Packaged: 2019-08-02 01:40:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 21,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16295858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lightspire/pseuds/lightspire
Summary: Strange things are happening at the Celtic music festival. It’s up to Fraser and Ray to stop it before someone gets kilt.





	1. Be Careful What You Wish For

**Author's Note:**

> See end notes for a complete list of original characters and original band names. Thank you to my lovely beta, Bluehaven4220, who helps keep me inspired.

 

“What we need is a good stabbing,” said Ray Kowalski, scowling in disgust at the tottering piles of paper on his desk. He sighed heavily and rocked back in his chair.

     “Since when is a stabbing ever good?” Fraser asked, furrowing his brow. He sat in the chair by Ray’s desk, an expression of mild shock on his face.

 _Since I haven’t gotten to go out and play with my best friend for days_ , Ray thought.

     The last week had been busy for both of them and they hadn’t been able to see each other much. Fraser had been stuck with Consular duties and Ray had been forced to deal with another one of Ray Vecchio’s (the “real” Ray Vecchio) old cases that had required tracking down several dusty old files before he’d finally gotten it all sorted out. The combination of tedious desk work and the absence of his partner made Ray restless in more ways than he cared to admit.

     Ray picked up his letter opener and poked it at a stack of unopened mail. “Uh, never mind. I’m just tired of it. Of this —” He waved at the sea of paper. The letter opener slipped from his fingers and hit the back of his left hand, puncturing the skin before clattering to the floor.

     “Damn it!” he raised his hand to his mouth and sucked at the small cut.

     “Are you hurt?” Fraser whipped out his handkerchief and offered it.

     “It’s nothing,” Ray said, embarrassed, and shrugged his shoulders. He picked up the letter opener and placed it, carefully, back on his desk. “I gotta get out of here. Want to go get something to eat?”

     “Certainly.” Fraser stood up and plucked his hat from Ray’s inbox as they headed for the door.

     Four members of a mariachi band, arguing in rapid Spanish, shouldered past them on their way out.

     “And Ray?” Fraser said, pointing to his friend’s injured hand.

     “What?”

     “Be careful what you wish for.”

  

# # #

 

Later that night….

     Alan MacLeod, drummer for the Scottish Celtic rock band Selkie Coast, chugged the last of his Guinness and set the glass down on the bar with a satisfied clunk. He pulled a green and white American tenner from his wallet and slapped it down into a watery puddle next to the empty glass.  
  
    “Night, Manny,” he said to the barkeep, who nodded thanks, pocketed the money and began wiping the bar with a dirty red rag.

     Alan slid off the worn wooden barstool and ambled out of the Dog and Duck pub on Michigan avenue, ringing the little bell as the door opened and closed. A rush of cold damp air hit him in the face as he skipped down the steps into the night.

     It was a short four-block walk back to his band’s tour bus at the Grant Park campground, and a stroll in the cool night air would do him some good. His brain buzzed pleasantly from the beer. Happy and relaxed, he sang a bawdy song to keep himself company.

     “Well a Scotsman clad in kilt left a bar one evening fair, and one could tell by how he walked that he’d drunk more than his share….”

     A gust of wind came up, sending dry leaves skittering past his feet and lightly lifting his kilt around his knees. His face was flushed and stung from the combination of alcohol and damp night air, and he turned his jacket collar up against the rising breeze.

     “Ring ding diddle diddle I-de-oh, ring di-diddly-I-oh....”

     He hoped his band mates would still be up, especially his girlfriend, the lead singer. He touched the silver knotwork cross at his throat and smiled when he thought of her. Maybe he could run through one or two songs in a quick jam session before bed and — knock on wood — finish the night with a quick other kind of session with his bird.

     Behind him, a very large, very dark figure detached itself from the shadows, and followed.

     Blind to the approaching danger, MacLeod hummed and tapped a steady rhythm on his thigh with his left hand as he walked. Sulfur street lamps cast puddles of yellow light along the sidewalk and he hurried from one bright cone to the next, rushing through the black spaces.

     The quiet street harbored few sounds: the hum of neon, a passing car. A few sickly buckthorn trees, their roots contorting and cracking the sidewalk, lined the street. Their leaves rustled in the wind.

     The rustling sound grew louder, and MacLeod stopped singing to hear it better.

     Strange. There weren’t enough trees on this stretch of street to make that much noise. So where was that rustling coming from, if not the trees?

     The sound grew louder still, along with a new noise behind him: footsteps. Heavy. Pounding. Running up fast.

     A mugger. _Shite_. Time to leg it.

     MacLeod sped up and broke into a run, racing to get back to the park before the thief could catch him. He needed to get past that alley up on the right, for sure — it was way too dark in there. Not safe. Just a few more yards and he’d be past it, into a well-lit section of street, where there were people and he could get some help.

     The alley drew closer.

     So did the mugger.

     The rustling sound built to a deafening roar.

     The last thing MacLeod remembered was a pair of rough hands grabbing him from behind, shoving him up against a wall, his face slammed against the brick. He felt a crushing blow to his left shoulder, followed by a ripping, searing pain as the knife plunged into his upper back.

     Dry leaves surged around him in a swirling torrent as he fell to the pavement and blacked out.


	2. The Ash Tipper

Early the next morning, as yet unaware of the previous night’s events, Fraser prowled the streets of Chicago. Diefenbaker trotted at his side.

     It was his favorite time of day: the rising sun cast a jaundiced glow through the dusty, swirling air, and the city seemed almost peaceful, if he squinted and didn’t look too closely. Elevated railways and towering buildings of concrete and glass crisscrossed each other all around him, forming an urban maze of inuksuit, each one a doorway through this strange land.

     “I wonder what Ray is up to this morning?” he asked Dief.

     “Woof.”

     “You’re right, he is probably still sleeping.” Warmth flooded his chest at the thought of his friend, and a small smile crossed his lips.

     High in the sky above, a pair of peregrine falcons hunted for pigeons from atop a nearby skyscraper. Fraser pulled out his spyglass to watch them, and quickly spotted the nest on the 50th floor of an apartment balcony.

     “There are chicks!” he said to Dief. “Three, I think.”

     The falcons climbed, wheeled, and fell in steep dives, driving their prey in front of them in a choreographed ballet of life and death. The female falcon struck with her talons and snatched a struggling pigeon from the air. In mid flight she reached her scythe-like beak down to snap its neck before carrying the prize to her squalling chicks.

     “She got one!” he told Diefenbaker, admiring the bird’s hunting skill.

     Dief barked appreciatively.

     A pigeon feather drifted down and landed on Fraser’s shoulder. He studied it, its edges frayed and bloody, before releasing it to flutter away in the wind. Growing up in the far north, where being alive meant living on a knife-edge from day to day, Fraser had a deep understanding that life equaled death equaled rebirth, and the grisly scene above didn’t phase him. Indeed, he found comfort in it.

     As they passed the Dog and Duck pub, Dief paused to sniff the doorway, searching for stray bits of fish and chips. Food wrappers, dry leaves, and tattered bits of paper skittered around his paws, blown on the morning breeze.

     “Stay out of the trash, Dief.”

     “Woof.”

     “I don’t care if you are expanding your cultural palate. Junk food from the British Isles is still junk food.”

     Diefenbaker grumbled and continued to eat the fallen scraps.

     Fraser shook his head. “Hopeless.”

     A brightly colored poster was taped to the outside of the pub window. A corner had come loose and flapped in the wind, and the movement caught Fraser’s attention. He reached out to smooth it down with his hand.

The poster read:

First Annual Chicago Celtic Festival!

Third week of September, 1997

Grant Park

BATTLE OF THE BANDS! $50,000 TOP PRIZE

Headliners:

Selkie Coast

The Mount N’ Men

Fiona Willison & The Sea Devills

FREE ADMISSION

 

    “Look, Dief, a battle of the bands! I sincerely hope that doesn’t imply violence among musicians. I couldn’t condone that.”

     Diefenbaker’s reply was the canine equivalent of calling Fraser a moron.

     “Oh. A musical competition. Understood. I’ve never seen bands in combat. Maybe we should go.”

     Dief barked his approval and loped down the street. Two blocks over, he made a beeline for his favorite alley. He was already pawing through the greasy cardboard boxes and torn garbage bags by the time Fraser caught up with him.

     Diefenbaker had found something and was playing with it. The object was small, tan, and bone shaped.

     “What have you got there?” Fraser asked the wolf, crouching down.

     Diefenbaker growled, reluctant to give up his prize.

     “Come on, let me see. Is that a chicken bone? You know you can’t have those.”

     Dief let Fraser take the object. It wasn’t a bone. It was a beautifully carved and varnished wooden stick, a little longer than the length of Fraser’s hand. It had two rounded knobs, one on each end. Except for Dief’s teeth marks, it was smooth. Fraser held it up to the light to see better, sniffed it, and gave it a lick.

     Dief whined.

     “It’s ash wood,” Fraser said aloud. “ _Fraxinus_ _excelsior_. Irish Ash, to be exact. Huh.”

     “Woof?”

     “No, it’s not a toy. I’m fairly certain it’s a tipper. A drumstick. Used to play an Irish bodhran drum. How did it end up here?”

     Fraser gave a cursory glance around but didn’t see any obvious clues to the tipper’s origins. He did, however, hear the buckthorn leaves rustling. Whispering. Calling.

     “Did you hear that?”

     Dief barked.

     “So did I. Odd. It almost sounded like....” Fraser shook his head, and dropped the drumstick in case someone came looking for it. The rustling sound got louder.

     Diefenbaker picked up the tipper, and the rustling died down.

     “That’s not yours. Leave it and come on.”

     The half-wolf sat down on his haunches, held the stick firmly in his mouth, grumbled, and refused to budge.

     “Yes, you are technically correct that possession is nine-tenths of the law. But that doesn’t make it ethical.”

     Diefenbaker huffed.

     “Fine. I give up. Keep it. Just remember that I’ve got the moral high ground.”

     Diefenbaker carried the tipper all the way back to Fraser’s office at the Consulate, where he put it under his blanket along with his other favorite toys.

 

# # #

     Later that day in the squad room, Ray sipped absently at a tepid cup of coffee, intent on the open file in front of him. Fraser stood close behind him in companionable silence, leaning over his shoulder. Ray could feel the warmth of Fraser’s body on his back, smell the lanolin of his tunic along with a whiff of lavender soap, and hear his steady breathing in one ear. It was nice. He knew the moment wouldn’t last — they never did — so Ray closed his eyes and let it wash over him.

     “Vecchio!” Lieutenant Welsh barked across the bullpen, breaking Ray’s reverie. Ray and Fraser looked up in unison. Welsh gripped a pastrami on rye in one hand and a manila folder in the other. He waved at them with the folder. “In here. Bring the Mountie.”

     Ray hurried to Welsh’s office with Fraser a half step behind, dodging a pair of red-headed twins in pink jumpsuits who were handcuffed together. Welsh watched the Detective and the Mountie approach, noting for the hundredth time that neither of them seemed to have a concept of personal space, at least not with each other.

     “Armed robbery and assault of a 31 year old Caucasian male, name’s Alan MacLeod,” Welch explained once they’d come into his office. “Knife to the back, heavy blows to the face and body.”

     “A stabbing,” Ray said.

     Fraser looked meaningfully at Ray, who had the decency to look sheepish.

     “Your ability to deduce the obvious never ceases to amaze me, Detective,” Welsh said.

     Ray crossed his arms and scowled.

     Welsh took a bite of sandwich and added, “The victim’s a musician in town for some kind of festival over in Grant Park.”

     “The Celtic festival,” Fraser said.

     “That’s the one. Guys with bagpipes prancing around in skirts.” Welsh took another bite of sandwich. “A Samaritan found him unconscious in an alleyway just off MacGuffin Avenue at 2 a.m. this morning, not far from your neck of the woods,” he said, pointing to Fraser with the sandwich. The pastrami stuck out of the end and flopped up and down like a pink tongue as Welsh waved it around. “They took him to the hospital.”

     “Anything else?” Ray perched his fingertips on his hips.

     “The victim’s a UK citizen. As such, Constable Fraser is in a position to assist, with the blessing of Inspector Thatcher. Also, the guy was intoxicated. He kept mumbling something about a fairy curse. I want you to go to the hospital and see if you can get some sense out of him.”

     “So let me get this straight.” Ray ticked off his fingers: “We’ve got a stabbing, a British musician, guys in skirts, and a fairy curse?”

     “This case has you two written all over it,” said Welsh, swallowing the last of his sandwich. “Get on it.” He dismissed them with a wave.

     Once they were well out of the Lieutenant's earshot, Ray turned to his partner. “Why do we always get the weird cases, Frase?”

     “Is that a rhetorical question?”

     “Point taken.”

 

# # #

 

 Meanwhile at the Celtic festival grounds:

     The toilet in the Mount N’ Men’s tour bus backed up rather violently.

     A sudden gust of wind blew three vendors’ tents down, scattering their wares along the shores of the lake.

     Jamie McAllister, bass guitarist for the Sea Devills, discovered that the strings on his Fender Precision Bass had been cut.

 

# # #

 

Alan MacLeod sat up in his hospital bed, looking exactly like someone who had been beaten and stabbed. Purple bruises blossomed on his cheek and there was a cut on his face, now bandaged. He looked up at Ray, then glanced over at Fraser, a confused expression on his face.

     Ray was used to this reaction by now, more or less, and took it in stride. Everyone looked like that when the Mountie was in the room. Fraser wore his red serge, as usual, and stood politely to one side, hat tucked under his arm.

     “He’s Canadian,” Ray said, gesturing to Fraser, “He’s with the…”

     “Royal Canadian Mounted Police,” Fraser added helpfully.

     MacLeod nodded, as though that explained everything.

     “Can you describe the assailant? Height, weight, any distinguishing marks?” Ray held his pen over his notepad.

     “I didn’t see his face, but he was big. Built like a tank,” MacLeod said. He handed Ray a small plastic bag with a piece of metal in it. “The doc took this out of my shoulder blade. She said I was lucky to be alive, and that I should give this to you.”

    Ray squinted and poked at the bag. “Looks like the tip of a knife. We’ll have the lab guys give it the once-over.” He handed the bag to Fraser, who examined it closely.

     “Then there’s this,” said Alan. He pulled down the collar of his gown so they could see the large bruise on his shoulder.

     Ray bent to study the mark. “Fraser, take a look at this.” He leaned over to see. The broken blood vessels had formed a three-sided knotwork design.

     “What is it?” asked MacLeod.

     “It appears that the person who hit you was wearing a ring,” Fraser said. “It left a distinctive mark.” He made a quick sketch of the mark on Ray’s notepad. “Do you recognize this?” he showed the drawing to MacLeod, who shook his head no.

     “Anything stolen?” Ray asked.

     “He nicked my wallet. Fifty dollars in American money. He left my passport.”

     “And that?” Fraser asked, pointing. The Scotsman wore a silver knotwork cross on a thick chain around his neck, in odd contrast to the grey hospital gown.

     “A gift from my bird,” he said, smiling and touching the pendant. “I never take it off.”

     “Can you think of a reason someone might want to hurt you?” asked Ray.

     “Not unless they really hate my music,” Alan joked. “Everyone’s a critic. But no, I can’t think of a reason. I’m a pretty boring bloke.”

     Ray scribbled notes on his pad. “What do you play?”

     “Drums. For Selkie Coast. We’ve got a gig at the Celtic festival. If we win the prize money we’re going to cut an album. But with me being hurt, I don’t know...” his voice trailed off.

     “Did you lose a tipper by any chance?” asked Fraser.

     “A what?” Ray asked, rubbing his ear.

     “You found it?” MacLeod asked hopefully.

     “His what?” Ray asked again, feeling left out of the conversation.

     “I’ll explain later.”

     Ray hated when Fraser did that, even though he understood the reasons for it in the moment. It made him feel stupid.

     “Anything else you can tell us?” Ray asked.

     “You’ll think I’m mad.” MacLeod made a twirling gesture by his ear.

     “I assure you, sir, we won’t.” Fraser gave him his sincerest “I’m a Mountie and I never lie” look, and leaned closer. “It’s all right, you can tell me.”

     Ray smiled when he saw this. If they gave out Olympic medals for manipulation by politeness, Fraser would take the gold. He couldn’t complain, though, because it worked.

     MacLeod glanced around the room, then dropped his voice conspiratorially, “That festival’s cursed,” he said, and touched his cross again, as if to ward off evil.

     “Cursed.” Ray rolled his eyes and threw his hands up in exasperation.

     “Ray — ” Fraser stuck out a calming hand. “I think we should hear what Mr. MacLeod has to say.” He gave a nod to the Scotsman.

     “It’s all gone pear shaped. Sickness and hurt on the musicians, equipment failures. The toilet in one of the band’s tour buses blew up yesterday — it’s unnatural, I tell you. I think someone’s made the dryads angry.”

     “Oh dear,” said Fraser.

     “The dry-what’s?” Ray’s pen hovered over his notepad, unsure of what to write.

     “Dryads,” Fraser interrupted. “I’ll explain that later, too.”

     Ray snorted.

     “I’m not insane,” MacLeod insisted.

     “I assure you, sir, we don’t think have a hole in your bag of marbles. We’ll look into it. Thank you kindly for your time.”

     “If you think of anything else,” Ray handed MacLeod his card, “gimme a call.”

 

# # #

 

Meanwhile, at the festival grounds…

     A heavy speaker rack fell over and crashed onto Stage Two, barely missing a sound technician.

     Thunk-thunk-thunk-thunk… a row of portable toilets fell like dominoes, accompanied by cries of, “Oh shit!” and “AAAAAAAHHH!” from the unfortunate occupants.

     The piper for Selkie Coast came down with a case of 24-hour food poisoning from some bad haggis.

 

# # #

 

Fraser and Ray walked down the hospital corridor away from MacLeod’s room and towards the elevators. At the first juncture, Ray turned right, Fraser left.

     “Ray. Ray. Ray. Ray!”

     “What!”

     “Elevator’s this way.” Fraser jerked his head to indicate direction. Ray frowned, turned around and went back to where Fraser stood waiting.

     “I knew that.”

     As they rode the elevator down to the parking garage, Fraser turned his hat over in his hands as he ruminated on MacLeod’s statement.

     Ray scratched the back of his head and asked, “I know I’m gonna regret this, but what’s a dryad?”

     “A tree spirit.”

     “I was right. I _do_ regret it.”

     “There are more things in Heaven and Earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy, Ray.”

     “What’s that supposed to mean?”

     “The fae or fair folk, as they are also known — including dryads — have always held a significant place in Celtic culture.” Fraser gestured with his hat. “Even today, there are those who believe that trees, springs, and other sacred places have spirits inhabiting them. Misfortune befalls those who offend the spirits.”

     Ray shook his head in disbelief. “And here I thought we were looking for a big perp with a knife, but, no, we’re chasing a homicidal Tinkerbelle. I’m never gonna hear the end of this.”

     “I suppose not.” Fraser reached up to smooth his eyebrow with his knuckle. “But dryads are not what’s important,” he continued. “What is important is that those beliefs could be used to frighten people, or worse, to conceal criminal activity.”

     Ray nodded.

     “Consider this,” Fraser said, holding the door open for Ray as they exited the hospital, “How did the assailant know that MacLeod is left-handed? And how did he know where he would be that evening?”

     “How’d you get that he’s left left-handed? Ray asked, feeling defensive that he’d missed whatever clues Fraser had seen.

     “There is a writer’s callus on his left middle finger and his left bicep is approximately point-nine centimeters thicker than his right, clearly suggesting heavier use.”

     “Clearly.”

     “I suspect malfeasance.” Fraser gave a curt nod — a habit he demonstrated when he was sure of something.

     “Damn right there’s mal-whatsit. A guy got stabbed, Fraser.”

     “I mean at the festival. There’s bigger villainy afoot here.”

     “Yeah, I think you’re right. It’s queer. I don’t like it,” Ray scratched his face thoughtfully. “That was no random mugging. They would have grabbed the necklace and the passport. I got a hunch somebody’s trying to take out the competition.”

     “Good instincts, Ray.”

     Ray’s ears turned pink at the praise. He liked it when Fraser respected his hunches. The Mountie had come a long way since the Henry Anderson. Allen. Whatever. Since that time they’d almost lost each other. And despite what Fraser had said that day, _everything_ had changed.

     Ray gave a little cough into his hand. “So, what about that tapper thingy?”

     “Tipper. Yes, of course. We need to go to my office.”

     “Sure. Why?”

     “Diefenbaker’s withholding evidence.”

     Ray knew better than to ask.

  

# # #

 

     “Dief, go get the tipper please,” Fraser instructed as he opened the door to his office.

     The half-wolf whined in protest.

     “Diefenbaker, we’ve discussed this. Yes, you do have to hand it over. That’s evidence in a criminal investigation and it is unlawful to withhold it.”

     Dief didn’t move, just looked up at him, panting. Fraser glared for an instant, then changed tactics. He crouched down to wolf-eye-level and softened his expression.

     “Besides. It belongs to a very nice man, and it carries great personal value to him.”

     That did the trick. Diefenbaker barked once, then turned to paw around under his blanket. He retrieved the drumstick and dropped it into Fraser’s outstretched handkerchief. Fraser wrapped the stick in cloth to protect any remaining fingerprints, though it was unlikely that any had survived being mauled by a wolf.

     “Thank you. I knew you’d make the right decision,” he said to Dief, and rubbed his ears. To Ray he said, “Sympathy angle. Works every time.”

     Dief grumbled.

     “What the hell _is_ that thing?” Ray nearly choked on his gum. “Is that what I think it is?”

     Fraser, grinning innocently, replied, “Why yes, it’s an ash tipper! Sometimes called an ash beater or a bone. They can be holly or oak or other woods, too, but this one’s definitely made from Irish Ash.”

     “I….” Ray opened his mouth and closed it, not at all sure what to say next. “An ash beater.”

     Fraser nodded.

     “And this has something to do with music,” Ray went on, choosing his words carefully. “Not…” he didn’t want to embarrass Fraser, but it had to be said. He ran a nervous hand through his spiky blond hair. “I don’t want to sound crude but…”

     “People always say that right before they’re about to be indelicate.’

     “Well, yeah. Ok, so putting this — _indelicately —_ that’s not some kind of weird hippie sex toy, is it?”  
  
     Fraser’s cheeks instantly matched the color of his uniform. He stared at Ray, then shook his head with an expression of mock outrage.

     “Really, Ray, if that’s all you can think of, I don’t know what to do with you.”

     Heat pooled in Ray’s lower abdomen and his pupils dilated for a split second. W _ell, I know what you should do with me_ , he thought, smirking, before slamming that thought shut as fast as he’d formed it. His feelings for Fraser were confusing at best, unnerving at worst, and most importantly, not going anywhere. Best to shoot that particular sleeping dog with a trank gun so it stayed unconscious.

     Fraser snapped into professor mode in a desperate ploy to lift the conversation out of the gutter.

     “It’s for playing a Celtic drum.” Fraser took his hat off and turned it sideways like a bodhran drum, then grabbed a pencil from the pencil cup. He tapped a rhythm with the pencil against the brim. “See?” Then he added, emphasizing each word, “Nothing. Else.” He regarded Ray sternly.

     “Whatever you say.” Ray winked suggestively and wiped his fingers across his mouth. Canadians could be _so_ uptight.

     Fraser blushed an even deeper shade of crimson.

 

# # #

     The crime lab found no usable prints on the tipper: just Dief’s paw prints and a few canine teeth marks.

     When they showed the drumstick to MacLeod, he identified it as his.

# # #

     Fraser returned to the alley where Diefenbaker found the tipper — which, through astonishing coincidence, happened to be where MacLeod was attacked — to look for clues. Fraser carefully scanned the ground, sniffing and touching his way around the crime scene.

     Dry leaves swirled and danced around his feet. A sudden gust of wind blew the leaves up against the brick wall of the alley, drawing Fraser’s gaze. He followed the path of the moving leaves with his eyes and studied the wall.

     There. A rust-colored bloodstain marked the spot where Alan’s head had met the brick. And… _there_. A faint white mark, almost like a partial handprint, 18.3 centimeters to the right of the blood stain. Fraser sniffed the white mark, then carefully touched it with the tip of his tongue.

    Chalk.

     It was the kind of powdered chalk weightlifters used. The same kind that athletes competing in the heavy events at a Highland games competition would use.

     It still wasn’t enough to satisfy evidence — any gym rat could have chalk on their hands.

     But it was a start.

 

# # #

 Meanwhile at the festival campground….

     The lights inside singer Fiona Willison and The Sea Devills’ trailer sparked. A small fire broke out, filling the cabin with acrid electrical smoke.

     “Fire! Fire! Everyone out!” she shouted, clutching her violin case and pushing her band mates ahead of her.

     Thinking fast, Jamie the bass guitarist grabbed the fire extinguisher they never thought they’d need, pulled the pin, and quickly extinguished the flames.

     As she ran down the short flight of steps that led out of the bus, Fiona tripped and fell sprawling into the grass.

     “Agh!” She cried out, as she rolled over and grabbed her ankle, then her left wrist.

     “Are you all right?” asked Jamie.

     “I don’t know. Everything hurts,” she said, alternately rubbing her wrist and ankle. “I hope to God nothing’s broken. What if I can’t play?” Her voice trembled and tears formed at the corners of her eyes.

     “I called for help. They said they’d be here soon,” Jamie said, and put a comforting hand on her shoulder. He sat with her to wait, sneaking occasional glances at her to see how she was doing. He couldn’t help but notice the cute freckles sprinkled across her nose, and admire the way the golden light of the setting sun glinted in her smooth red hair.

     “You’re a good man, Jamie. Thank you.” She smiled at him, and his heart felt like it would burst with happiness.

     A few short minutes that seemed like hours later, the firemen appeared and a paramedic was soon tending to Fiona’s foot and ankle. A small crowd of crew, musicians, and hangers-on had gathered around the trailer, waiting for the fire department to give the all clear.

     All around, the air was filled with the sound of rustling leaves.


	3. Don't Call It A Skirt

     “What do you know about Scottish folk dancing?” Fraser asked, idly twirling his Stetson as they walked down the hall towards his Consulate office.

     “Zip. Nada. I’m a ballroom guy.”

     “And a very fine one at that.”

     Ray grinned at the compliment. It made him feel all warm and fuzzy inside.

     Fraser opened the door and the two of them walked through at the same time, nearly getting stuck in the process. Halfway through the doorframe, they froze, facing each other. Ray looked at Fraser. Fraser looked at Ray. Suddenly it felt quite a bit warmer in the room.

     Awkwardly, they managed to get inside and Fraser closed the door.

     The office was cramped and piled high with filing boxes. It reminded Ray of a quarantine cage — a temporary refuge, and certainly not a home. He tried not to think too hard about that, because deep down he couldn’t bear the idea of Fraser ever leaving even though he knew it was inevitable.

     “Why the sudden interest in Scottish dancing?” Ray, asked, and flopped down into the only guest chair in the room. He flung one leg over the arm and settled back.

     Fraser tossed his hat onto the desk.

     “I believe it would be good to insinuate ourselves into the festival,” he said, as he stripped off his Sam Browne belt, lanyard, and tunic, and hung them neatly in the closet.

     Ray watched him undress, carefully masking, he hoped, how distracting Fraser’s casualness in disrobing in front of him really was. Fraser adjusted the straps on his suspenders, crossed his arms and leaned back against the desk. His posture was relaxed and comfortable, in sharp contrast to the ramrod carriage he displayed while in full uniform.

_And very, very sexy_ , Ray thought. He cleared his throat and fiddled with the RCMP-emblazoned pencil cup on the desk.

     “Do I really want to know, I ask myself, how we do that?” Ray waved a pencil in the air, punctuating his words.

     “I was thinking. You’re such a good dancer, maybe you could join a Scottish performing troupe and ….”

     Ray flung the pencil at Fraser, who caught it. “No way in _hell_ am I jumping up and down in a skirt with my skinny ass hanging out, Fraser!”

     “It’s a kilt, Ray.”

     Ray picked up another pencil and brandished it. “Call it whatever you want. It’s a skirt. Just _no_.”

     “Ah.”

     “Ah. What’s that supposed to mean?” Ray’s voice rose in irritation. He dreaded Fraser’s ‘Ah’. It was even worse than the ‘Hmm’ and almost as bad as the ‘I see’. Nobody could make a person feel guilty and doubt their own judgment with a single syllable faster than Benton Fraser.

     “It means that you’re much better at dancing, and thus your ability to infiltrate the festival undercover, than I will ever be.”

     “I don’t care. Think of another way.”

     “But you’d look stunning in a kilt,” Fraser, said, giving him the once-over.

     Ray could have sworn he saw Fraser’s pupils dilate. _Is he…? Is he checking me out?_ He blushed and coughed into his fist.

     “Ahem. Fraser, Polish guys do not, and should never, wear skirts.”

     “Are you absolutely sure? They’re quite comfortable, once you get used to the breeze.” Fraser raised his eyebrows and the corner of his mouth twitched into a smile. He was not-so-secretly relishing Ray’s embarrassment. “You Americans are _so_ uptight.”

     “Uptight or not, I will be laid out on a slab before you put me in a skirt,” Ray paused for a moment, before adding, “and if you put me in a skirt _after_ I’m dead, I will come back and haunt you.”

      Fraser wasn’t sure he could endure having both his father and Ray haunt him for the rest of his life, so he relented.

     “Have it your way,” Fraser said. “Forget the undercover idea. We’ll just go as tourists, and I’ll wear it as a way to blend in. But trust me — you’re missing out.” The smug look on his face was infuriating.

     “Bite me, Freak.” Ray launched the second pencil into the air. Again Fraser caught it. Two for two.

     Fraser laughed and raised his hands in surrender. “Ok, Ok. You win. But if you should change your mind, I have a spare Regimental kilt in the closet you can borrow….”

     Fraser ducked, barely avoiding the file folder Ray chucked at him.

 

# # #

Meanwhile at the festival grounds....

     In the Mount N’ Men’s tour bus, the toilet erupted again.

     “Shite, shite, shite!” Sean Murray, percussion and lead vocalist, ran from the tiny bathroom, the sound of rushing water and — was that rustling leaves? — whooshing past his ears.

     His partner, fiddle player and band manager Mike Collins, came running to meet him. He nearly crashed into him as Sean tore out the door and sprinted across the grass away from the bus.

     “What’s wrong? Hey! Sean! Wait for me!”

     Mike caught up with Sean, who had finally stopped running. He leaned against a gray-barked ash tree to catch his breath.

     “It’s fecking haunted, that’s what’s wrong!” Sean shouted. “I’ve had water up my arse twice in one week and I swear to you on my Mam’s grave, the fae here are laughing at us, Mike. I can hear the trees _laughing_.”

     Mike just stared at him, speechless.

 

# # #

 

     Fraser stepped out of the closet at the Consulate, resplendent in a red plaid kilt made from his family tartan. He’d paired it with a cream cable knit sweater and accessorized it with black kilt hose, red sock flashes, a black leather belt, a black fur-trimmed sporran with tassels and bells, short black hiking boots — the works.

     “What do you think?” He raised his arms in the air and spun around so Ray could get the full effect.

    Ray gawped. The toothpick he was chewing nearly fell out of his mouth.

     “You look like one of those painted plates my grandma used to collect.”

     “Thanks a lot.” Fraser frowned and dropped his arms to his sides.

     “Are we really going to investigate with you dressed like that?”

     “Of course. I think it prudent to attempt to fit in, don’t you?”

     “This,” Ray gestured up and down at Fraser’s outfit, “is fitting in?”

     “Indeed.”

     “Indeed.” Ray muttered and rolled his eyes. “Is that a purse?” Ray pointed to the bag that hung by a chain down the front of Fraser’s kilt. Right in front of his…Ray’s mouth suddenly felt dry. He swallowed.

     “It’s a sporran. An absolute necessity given that kilts don’t have pockets.”

     “It’s a purse.”

     “You’re just jealous,” Fraser said.

     Ray shrugged and licked his lips. It was true. Damn it, Fraser looked good. _Really_ good. Was there anything he couldn’t pull off? He even looked good in a fucking skirt with a _purse_.

     “What’s underneath?” Ray blurted before he could stop himself.

     “They’re brass.”

     “What?” He sputtered and raised his eyebrows.

     “The bells,” Fraser said, indicating the bells on the sporran. His face and voice were perfectly neutral.

      _Yeah, sure_. _You’re not fooling anybody._

     “In answer to your question,” Fraser said, “what’s underneath is for me to know and for you to ponder.” He touched the tip of his tongue to his teeth, and smirked.

      _For me to ponder? Seriously_? Ray shook his head, trying very hard not to ponder that and failing miserably. His pants felt suddenly tight, and he squirmed in his chair. It really wasn’t appropriate to go all horndog over his partner but his partner was making it extremely difficult not to.

     “And no peeking,” Fraser added.

      _Was that a warning? Or a Dare. Shit — he’s doing this on purpose. And — The_ _hell I won’t_. Ray was going to peek the first chance he got.


	4. Hide And Seek

     Ray drove the GTO to the festival grounds while Fraser watched him from the passenger seat. The radio hummed quietly from the vintage speakers. Ray had gotten in the habit of keeping the volume down out of respect for Fraser’s supersonic hearing.

     “No,” Ray said, as he stabbed a radio button. A fuzzy burst of static. “No.” Another stab. “C’mon, there has to be something good on.” One more poke. “Finally,” he said, settling on a song by Snow Axe, a Canadian punk band that had started to grow on him. Fraser winced but didn’t complain.

     Diefenbaker paced expectantly in the back seat and poked his nose between them.

     “Well someone’s excited,” Fraser patted the wolf’s snout. He leaned towards Ray and said, “Unfortunately I think he’s just looking forward to an unlimited supply of junk food.”

     Dief whined.

     “You can talk,” Ray smirked and glanced sideways at his partner. Even the supposedly perfect Mountie had his vices, and a taste for french fries, bachelor-spaghetti, and cold pizza was one of them. Not that it seemed to have any effect whatsoever on his physique.

     “Hmph,” Fraser grimaced. “Are you saying I’ve gone soft?”

     “Hell no. You’re gorgeous,” the words flew out of his mouth. _Stupid mouth_.

     Fraser’s neck cracked as his head whipped around. He stared at Ray, eyes wide.

     “I, um,” Fraser blushed and tugged at the collar of his sweater, “thank you.”

     “What I meant…” Ray backpedaled furiously, “what I’m saying is, you’ve gone native.” He clicked off the radio. “Chicago flatfoot native. Not sure that’s a good thing.”

     “Perhaps not.” Fraser cast his eyes downward and stroked an eyebrow with his thumb.

     “Hey, uh, you think they’ve got any moose burgers at the festival? Something healthy. Something, you know, more — Canadian?”

     “I doubt that very much. Moose have been extinct in the British Isles for over a thousand years. I appreciate that you care about my well-being, though.” He turned to stare out the side window, avoiding his partner’s gaze. The back of his neck was still flushed pink.

     Ray pulled up to the gates, his tires spitting gravel from the street as he slid into a parking spot. He climbed out of the car, slammed the door and tossed Fraser’s Stetson to him. Fraser caught it deftly, clamped it onto his head, and ran his thumb across the brim.

     Diefenbaker hopped down and began sniffing the ground, exploring all the new and exotic smells.

     The first thing they noticed was the noise. Even outside the gates, a cacophony of music, laughter, barking dogs, and the babble of crowds filled the air. Pipes, pennywhistles, harps, and fiddles sounded from two small stages, while a contemporary Celtic rock band belted out thumping dance numbers from the main stage. Ray wondered how Fraser could stand it.

     “It’s loud, isn’t it,” Fraser said, as though reading his mind. He rubbed his ears.

     “Yeah, well. The tundra it ain’t.” Ray gave him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder.

     “No. It’s definitely not,” he shook his head.

     Inside the gates, hundreds of people strolled the grounds. Long lines led into the beer tents. There were families, old couples, young couples, and groups of friends, all talking, laughing and drinking.

     Almost everyone was wearing plaid. So. Much. Plaid. Long skirts for the women, knee-length kilts on the men, tartan sashes tied diagonally across shoulders in a rainbow of colors.

     “It looks like a plaid factory exploded in here,” Ray said, adjusting his glasses.

     “Don’t insult the tartan, Ray. That’s my traditional clan regalia.”

     “Sorry.”

     Many of the festival-goers who weren’t wearing plaid were in Renaissance faire costumes. For once, Fraser wasn’t the only one in a ridiculous outfit. Ray felt out of place in his plain dark jacket and pants.

     Off to one side, a costumed storyteller enchanted a rapt audience of adults and children. Across from the storyteller, the Scottish Country Dancers wheeled and skipped on a temporary dance floor set in the shade of a big white tent.

     “That could have been you,” Fraser said, nudging Ray and pointing to the dancers.

     “In your dreams.” Ray grudgingly conceded to himself that the dancing looked like fun, but he’d never admit it out loud.

     “Which dreams would those be, Ray?” Fraser asked and raised his eyebrows.

     “I’m not gonna justify that with an answer,” Ray said, but his mind reeled. _What the hell, Frase._

     Two large fenced-off areas occupied the far end of the grounds. One hosted the Highland games. In the other, trained border collies rounded up sheep in a herding demonstration. Past that, at the temporary campground, rows of tour buses, campers, and RVs stood parked like boats at a marina.

     “Well that’s not right at all,” said Fraser, frowning. He took out his spyglass to study another roped-off area — a demonstration battlefield — in the middle of the grounds.

     “What’s not right?” Ray asked, suddenly alert.

     “That,” Fraser pointed. He strode towards the battlefield where there was, apparently, a Viking war going on.

     The scene was one of noise and chaos: metal swords, axes, and pikes clashed on wooden shields. Grunts and cries of, “Treachery!” and, “You knave!” filled the air, along with a great deal of banter. There was plenty of overdramatic fake dying going on as the fighters, all dressed in historical battle armor, fell to each other’s attacks. The single victor cried out, “I am Uther, the Undefeated!” and raised his hands in triumph. The crowd laughed and clapped.

     “What’s wrong?” Ray scanned the crowd for trouble.

     “Claymores — those long broadswords,” Fraser pointed towards Uther the Undefeated, who was brandishing one, “are piercing weapons, designed to penetrate armor. That man in the chainmail looked like he was trying to chop down a tree.”

     Ray boggled. “Oh yeah, smarty pants? And what do you know about sword fighting?”

     “It’s part of our routine training. You never know when you might be called upon to defend yourself with a blade.”

     “You’re full of shit, Fraser.”

     “I’m serious. It’s basic instruction.”

     “Of course it is.”

     “I do possess a rather _impressive_ sword, if you’ll recall. I’ve become quite good at wielding it.”

     Ray stared at Fraser, whose expression was as blank as a frozen lake.

  

# # #

 

     As they explored the fairgrounds side by side, people stared. Ray knew they weren’t looking at him. They were drooling over the brightly clad Scotsman with the Clark Kent good looks and a Mountie hat firmly attached to his head, a white wolf trailing at his heels. Breathtaking beauty and utter ridiculousness rolled into a single package. You couldn’t blame them.

      _“Always the ugly stepsister next to Cinderella at the ball,”_ Ray thought to himself. But wait a sec — it wasn’t like that. It was like, “ _If he’s Cinderella...that makes me...Prince Charming! Yeah.”_ Ray smiled and puffed out his chest.

     “What did you say?”

     “Nothing.”

     Fraser, as usual, was either oblivious to the stares or was deliberately ignoring them. His attention was riveted instead on a cluster of animal pens near the entrance to the vendor area.

     “Look, Ray, horses!”

     A pair of giant Clydesdales grazed in one enclosure, flicking their tails and shaking their flanks to ward off biting insects. Beside them, separated by a chain link fence, tiny Shetland ponies stuck their noses through the holes, letting children pet and coo over them. And.... Oh.

     “He’s a beauty.” Fraser complimented the owner of the sleek black Irish Hunter that pranced and whickered in its own pen. Built like a racehorse, the gelding was tall, well muscled, and spirited. Its coat shone in the sun.

     “Best mount I ever had,” the owner replied.

     “I can see why,” Fraser nodded and smiled.

     The horse pricked its ears up, sauntered over to the Mountie and sniffed. Fraser spoke to it in soothing tones and patted its nose. Horse and Mountie seemed to reach some sort of understanding, the meaning of which Ray could only guess at, but it was clear they approved of each other. Fraser knew his way around a horse the way Ray knew his way around an engine. Fraser spoke to the owner a little longer, using words that were unfamiliar to Ray — words like ‘hands’ and ‘posting’ and ‘pasterns’ and heaven knows what else.

     As Ray watched this exchange, it struck him how out of place Fraser truly was: an unhorsed Mountie, a man without a home. Diefenbaker and the people Fraser worked with were all he had. An orphan with no family, unwelcome in his own country. The Ice Queen ran hot and cold with her affections and he seemed to have bad luck with women in general, even when he did make a move. The 27th merely tolerated him because he was useful to them.

     Fraser was, in every sense of the word, an alien. Alone. It explained why he still lived at the Consulate — it was the only thing that was even remotely familiar to him. A tiny island of safety in a vast, unknown sea.

     Ray knew that for all Fraser’s beauty and the admiration he attracted wherever he went, no one in Chicago really knew the man underneath, except for maybe Ray Vecchio (the real one), and himself.

     _“Good thing he’s got me_ ,” Ray thought. “ _He needs me —_ _God, he really does_.”

     His heart ached at the idea. He wished he could tell Fraser he was not alone. Tell him he was loved and wanted. _If I tell him I’m in love with him, he’ll leave, like Stella. Like all the rest_. So he didn’t. Not ever. It wasn’t worth endangering what they had. Better to have a solid partnership than to cross that bridge and risk burning it all behind him.

     Fraser took one last admiring look at the horse and sighed with longing before tipping his hat and turning to leave. Duty called.

     He looked like he could use a hug.

     Ray rested a comforting arm around his friend’s shoulder as they walked. “You miss it, don’t you.”

     Little did Ray know that the amount of “It” Fraser missed could fill a crevasse.

     Fraser nodded. “Yes, I do,” he said sadly. “I really do.”

 

# # #

 

Meanwhile, at the sheep herding demonstration field….

     One of the off-duty border collies snuffled through an overturned trash barrel and found a treasure: a discarded short-bladed knife with a deer antler handle and a broken tip. She took the knife gently in her jaws, carried it behind a stack of dog crates, and buried it.

 

# # #

 

      “We can cover more ground if we separate,” Fraser said. “I’ll go visit the jewelry artisans. I’m hoping one of them made our assailant’s ring. Dief, you go talk to the dogs.”

      Diefenbaker barked once and trotted off towards the herding demonstration.

     “I’ll talk to the athletes,” Ray said. “Maybe somebody knows something.”

     “Good thinking, Ray.”

     Suddenly feeling self-conscious about his physical appearance (he was going to interview a bunch of athletes after all), Ray asked, “Uh…How do I look?”

     “As muscular and handsome as ever,” answered Fraser, not skipping a beat.

     Warmth rose up the back of Ray's neck and he smiled, basking in the compliment.

     Fraser checked his watch. “Let’s meet back here in one hour.”

     Ray nodded agreement, fired his finger guns in the right direction, and headed off towards the far end of the grounds.

 

# # #

 

    Fraser turned to watch him go, looking fondly after his partner. He thought about how Ray seemed strangely out of place, even here, in the middle of the city he called home. He should fit perfectly, but he didn’t, not quite. He was like an old key that had got stuck in the lock, its edges shaved too thin by time and wear. Ray had lost so much: his wife, his father’s approval, his very name. He’d even quit smoking to protect Vecchio’s identity. The Rottweiler on the outside hid a lonely and insecure poet on the inside.

     " _He really needs me. Maybe almost as much as I need him,”_ Fraser thought, watching as Ray disappeared into the crowds, a ball of manic energy trying to escape its own skin.

     He wondered if Ray had any idea how much he meant to him. How much he…. Fraser absently touched his cheek with the back of his hand. How much Fraser had come to love and need and want.... But he could never tell him that. Could not even fully admit it to himself. If Ray knew, he would reject him and rightly so, for daring to even conceive of such trespasses. Or worse, Ray might die...like all the others. Fraser couldn’t survive another loss like that. Not again. His heart was too scarred, too fragile; one more blow and it would shatter like sea ice during a spring thaw.

     “How long are you going to keep torturing yourself, Son?” Bob Fraser’s ghost appeared at his elbow. He was sporting a Clan Fraser kilt that matched his son’s.

     “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Dad.”

     “Oh, I think you do.”

     “Go away. I’ve got work to do.”

     “Yes indeed, Son. Indeed, you do.”

     Fraser glared at him, and the ghost promptly vanished.

     He cracked his jaw, set his shoulders, and strode off to the vendors’ tents.

# # #

 

     When Ray reached the far end of the festival, he stopped and stared in awe at the sight that confronted him. He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting, but it wasn’t this.

     The field was full of tattooed, burly guys (and a few tattooed, burly women) dressed in kilts and muscle shirts that said things like: “KILT: It’s what happened to the last person who called it a skirt,” and, “Warning: Objects under kilt may be larger than they appear.”

     The men were built like tanks. Angry Gaelic tanks. Angry Gaelic tanks throwing _fucking_ _telephone_ _poles_.

     Ray watched them for a minute, scanning the games and the crowds, thinking about how to approach the situation. None of the competitors were wearing any jewelry — probably a safety thing — and he needed to talk to someone. He needed an in. Several of the athletes were parked in the shade of a blue and white striped tent, waiting their turn.

     He steeled himself, and walked over to them.

 

# # #

 

     Back at the vendors’ area, Fraser spent half an hour interviewing jewelers and metalsmiths. Most of the women and a few of the men flirted with him, but none of them had seen the exact design he was searching for. He was about to accept defeat when he spotted a small tent tucked near a swordsmith’s booth.

     A woman bent over a crafting table, her hands deftly twisting lengths of silver wire into spirals using a pair of fine needle-nose pliers. She wore an emerald green Renaissance faire gown embroidered with gold. A cascade of curly, raven-black hair fell past her shoulders, hiding her face from view as she worked.

     Suddenly, Fraser was transported back to a revolving glass door and falling snow and infinite pain and. _It can’t be. It cannot be. This cannot be._ Panic gripped his chest and he inhaled sharply.

     She looked up at the sound and caught him staring at her, which was a little weird, but she forgave him because he was really quite good looking.

      _It’s not her. Of course it’s not her._ Relief flooded through him and he exhaled.

     She smiled. “What’s with the hat?” she asked, breaking the awkward silence. “Are you some kind of Scout leader?” She arched an eyebrow at him, her bright green eyes laughing a little.

     Fraser snapped out of his trance.

     “No ma’am, Royal Canadian Mounted Police. I first came to Chicago on the trail of the killers of my father, and for reasons that don’t need exploring at this juncture, I’ve remained, attached as liaison with the Canadian Consulate.”

     “Oh...kay,” she said, not exactly sure how to respond. “Is there something I can do for you?”

     Fraser pulled the sketch of the ring from his sporran. “Do you recognize this design?”

     “Yes, that’s one of mine. I sell a lot of jewelry with that on it.”

     At last. A lead. “Any rings?”

     “Yes. It’s a popular engagement ring style.”

     “Engagement ring?” he asked, surprised. That was unexpected.

     “It’s called a Trinity Knot. See the three interlocking loops?” She traced the outline with her finger. “They symbolize a lot of things — Unity. Or life, death, and rebirth. Things like that.”

     “Interesting. Have you sold any recently?”

     She nodded. “I sold a matching pair of men’s rings last week to a highland gamer. Big guy.”

     “Is there any chance you might remember his name?”

     “I’m not in the habit of sharing information about my customers.”

     “I understand. It’s just that one of your rings was used in the commission of a crime and it would be very helpful to our investigation.”

     “Oh! That’s horrible. Yes of course, let me check my receipts.” She pulled out an accordion file and thumbed through it. “Here it is. Barry Murphy. Does that help?” she asked, flashing him her brightest smile.

     “It does indeed,” he replied, smiling back. “Thank you kindly, ma’am.”

 

# # #

 

 Meanwhile, at the sheep-herding demonstration….

     “Woof!” Diefenbaker barked through the fence.

     “Bark! Bark!” The border collie replied.

     “Ruff!” (Translation: Thank you kindly, ma’am.)

  

# # #

 

     Ray had to think fast. He needed to get information without showing his hand too much and without getting himself beat up by an angry Gaelic tank. But how?

     Then, he spotted her. One of the female athletes jogged off the field towards where he was standing near the tent. She wore her blonde hair knotted in a tight braid, a festival T-shirt soaked with sweat, grass-stained white tennis shoes, and black bike shorts that peeked out from under her purple and green kilt.

     Ok, so that answered one question: the athletes, at least, _did_ wear something under their kilts. Thank God for that. Ray didn’t want to see any more of the tatted guys than absolutely necessary. No telling if Fraser had done something similar — he was unpredictable, to say the least. _Still gonna peek_....

     The athlete stepped under the shade tent, grabbed a paper cup, filled it with water from a big orange cooler, and dumped it over her head. She filled a second cup and drank deeply, wiping the perspiration from her brow with the grimy black sweatband on her wrist.

     Ray had just watched this same woman pick up a big iron ball by its attached ring, spin around three times and throw it halfway across the field. It was impressive. He decided to go for it. He gave her his best, most winning smile and approached.

     “That was amazing!” He beamed at her. It was true. She was really strong.

     She walked over towards him, crossing the distance in a few short strides.

     He struck a casual pose, waiting for her to reach him. He watched her as she looked him up and down. She was totally checking him out. This chick was fearless. He kinda liked that. Her gaze roved over his hair and face, lingered a bit on his well-muscled arms, and finally travelled down to his ass. When she gave a little satisfied smile, Ray had to bite his tongue to keep from giving out a triumphant _yes_.

     “Thanks,” she said, finally returning her eyes to his face and smiling.

     He wasn’t sure if she was thanking him for the compliment or the once-over she’d just given him.

     “How long’ve you been doing that?” He asked, pointing to the field.

     “Only about two years,” she said. “You’re not a Highland gamer, I see.”

     “No. I’m a boxer myself,” he put his dukes up and dropped into a stance. “But I recognize a good arm when I see one. Name’s Ray Vecchio,” he said, and stuck out his hand.

     “Amy,” she said, shaking it once. She left a dusting of white chalk on his palm. “Nice to meet you, Ray Vecchio.”

     “You got a last name?”

     She studied him for a moment. Ray could tell she was trying to decide if he was a good guy or the other kind. Finally, she nodded and said, “Winchester.”

     “Hey, uh, Miss Winchester, can I get you a drink? Pop? Gatorade?”

     “Mm, so chivalrous,” she touched her neck and smiled at the small display of courtesy. “Are you trying to pick me up? Because it’s working.”

     “Maybe,” he said, grinning and running a hand down the front of his shirt.

     “Ok. One drink. I’ve got another round in forty five minutes.”

     Ray bought her a lemon-lime Gatorade and a Coke for himself. He sat with her in the shade of a boxelder tree, its leaves sighing in the breeze and its little winged seeds fluttering down around them as they talked.

     “Confession time,” said Ray. “I’m a detective.” He pulled back the lapel of his jacket and flashed his badge. Amy looked dismayed and moved to leave. “Hey, don’t worry, nobody’s in trouble,” he reassured her. “We’ve been hearing about a lot of weird stuff going on around here, thought we’d better check it out.”

     She sat back down again. “Yeah. There have been lots of problems. It’s not the best-run festival I’ve been to.”

     “Problems. What kind of problems?”

     “I hear stories. Like, there was a fire in a trailer. A few tents blew down, a bunch of musicians got food poisoning, and,” she started laughing, “the porta-potties blew over with some people in them. Nobody got hurt but that was kind of funny.”

     “Anything else? There was a stabbing we think might be related.”

     “A stabbing? Really? No I hadn’t heard that. That’s scary.”

     “Do you suppose any of them,” he jerked a thumb towards the athletic field, “would be willing to talk about it?”

     “I dunno. They’re a superstitious bunch. They believe if you talk about bad luck, bad luck will come to you. Like you’re summoning evil spirits or something.”

     “What do _you_ think?” he asked, sipping his drink.

     “I think someone’s got an agenda.”

     “Agenda. What do you mean?”

     “The musicians seem to be getting the worst of it. Damaged instruments and stuff like that.”

     “Any idea why? Or who might be behind it?”

     “No, sorry.” She finished her drink. “I’m only here during the day, and a lot of stuff happens in the evening. Sorry I can’t be more help. I gotta go.”

     “Ok, thanks Amy. Here’s my card. If you see or hear anything, gimme a call, OK? And good luck with the rest of the games. You got a great arm there.”

     “Thanks for the drink, Detective Vecchio.”

     “Call me Ray.”

 

# # #

 

     After an hour, Ray and Fraser regrouped at the entrance to the vendor area.

     “I got nothin’,” said Ray. “The guys didn’t want to talk. They think it’s bad luck or something. But I did find out that most of the bad stuff happens in the evening.” Ray put a little swagger in his walk and looked smug, before adding, “That, and I may have a date with a chick who throws cannonballs for fun.”

     Fraser clenched his jaw and a flicker of jealousy crossed his face. A woman? With _his_ partner?

     Ray noticed it. He felt a triumphant pang of spite. _Yeah, Frase, the ugly stepsister got one and you didn’t._

“She didn’t happen to be wearing a ring with a distinctive knotwork design, did she?”

     Ray’s expression hardened. “You’re doing it again.”

     “Doing what?”

     “That thing you do.” His eyes flashed with anger. “That thing where any time a woman expresses interest in me she immediately becomes suspect. Admit it,” he stabbed a finger towards Fraser, “you can’t handle not being the center of attention.”

     Ray’s interpretation of the situation was so wrongheaded that Fraser didn’t know where to start.

     “Ray, you’re projecting. If you recall, I wasn’t the one who ultimately doubted Ms. Russell, it was you questioning your own….”

     “Don’t play Freud with me Fraser,” Ray bit out the words. “I’m not in the mood for that shit right now.”

     The Ray-Rottweiler was snarling now, fangs bared, threatening to attack. It was astonishing how quickly Ray’s mood could turn from happy to shame-based rage when people accidentally tripped over old wounds or old insecurities — more like land mines.

     “ _Priorities, son,_ ” Bob Fraser’s words echoed in Ben’s mind. Right. Priorities. Deep breath.

     “Notwithstanding any narcissistic tendencies I may possess,” Fraser said, all business again, “Was she or was she not wearing a ring?”

     Ray looked disgusted. “No. She was not. None of ‘em were. It’s a safety rule.”

     “Very well. I, on the other hand, may have acquired the name of a potential suspect. An athlete named Barry Murphy recently bought two rings fitting our description. Could you…?”

     “I’m on it.” Ray called Francesca on his mobile phone. “Frannie, run a search for me. Guy named Barry Murphy.”

     You could practically hear Francesca glaring at him.

     “Is Fraser there?” She asked.

     Ray scowled. “Yeah.” He handed the phone to Fraser. “Talk to her.”

     “If you would be so kind?” he asked sweetly.

     “Anything for you, Fraser,” she said in a syrupy sweet voice. Fraser heard clacking noises from the keyboard as she pulled up the record. “Oh, yeah, he’s a real winner. Barry ‘The Murph’ Murphy. Multiple assaults, petty theft. Did time but he’s been on parole for seven months. Wouldn’t want to meet him in a dark alley.”

     “Thank you kindly, Francesca,” he said, and snapped the phone shut.

     “I knew it!” Ray pounded his fist into his hand. “Fairies and dryads, my ass. More like Murphy’s Law. All we need now’s a warrant and it’s show time.”

     Fraser smiled at Ray’s enthusiasm. The angry Rottweiler had turned back into a puppy, the tempest passing as quickly as it arose.

     “Come here. I want to show you something,” Fraser said. He grasped Ray by the elbow and led him to the swordsmith’s tent.

 

###

 

     The swordsmith was dressed in a muslin peasant shirt and a plain brown kilt, busily carving a dagger handle out of deer antler. He recognized the Mountie and gave a small wave, which Fraser returned, and went back to his work.

     Fraser pointed to a display of knives and swords locked in a clear plastic case. The blades were for show only. A certificate in a corner of the case verified that the vendor had special permission to exhibit at the festival.

     Ray whistled appreciatively. “Nice.” He stood close to Fraser, placed a hand on his back, and admired the array of weapons. “That long one there,” he said, pointing to a particularly vicious hunting knife, “You can get me that for Christmas. We can hunt caribou on the waterfront.”

     “I’m afraid I can’t do that, Ray. Not only are caribou sadly absent in Chicago, but all of this fine weaponry is illegal to possess under Illinois statute.” He indicated a small dagger. “See that short knife there?” It was sharpened on one side, with fancy scalloped file work on the back. It had a polished burled oak handle with a silver cap on the end.

     “Ooh, pretty,” Ray said.

     “It’s a sgian dubh.” To Ray it sounded like he said “Skeean doo”.

     “Why can’t you just call it a dagger like a normal person?”

     “Because, Ray, it’s an important part of traditional Scottish dress. It’s worn in a scabbard under the kilt hose. Furthermore, Scots usually carry more than one kind of dagger. Americans aren’t the only ones who believe in being heavily armed.”

     “Ok, yeah, I get it. So you think our perp used one of these?”

     “Yes.”

     Diefenbaker trotted up to the men.

     “Ah, there you are,” said Fraser. “You’re late.”

     “Woof!”

     “Really? Where? Show me.” Dief turned and sped off towards the sheep herding demonstration field. Fraser wasted no time in sprinting after the wolf, red kilt flying behind him.

     “What? What did he say?” Ray shouted at Fraser’s back, running to keep up.

     “One of the border collies found something!”

     At the herding field, Ray flashed his badge and they ran inside the gate. Dief and the border collie dashed behind a stack of dog crates and started digging furiously.

     Steel glinted in the bottom of the hole. Fraser plucked the object out of the ground using his handkerchief and examined it. It was a sgian dubh, its tip broken off. He wrapped it carefully and tucked it into his sporran.

     “Good Boy!” Fraser rubbed Dief's head. “And good Girl!” He said to the border collie, who barked and ran around in circles with excitement.

     “Bark!” said Diefenbaker.

     “Yes, she is very pretty, and I like her very much, but you already have a girlfriend.”

     “Woof!”

     “Well then. It’s your life, Dief. I suppose I’ll just have to respect that.”

     Diefenbaker smiled and hung his tongue out.

 

# # #

 

     The crime lab matched the broken knife tip from Alan MacLeod’s back to the blade the collies found. They also recovered one usable print. It was Barry Murphy’s.


	5. A Bit of Swash and Buckle

Before heading back to the festival grounds, warrants in hand, Fraser changed into his red serge uniform on Ray’s insistence.

     “Nobody’s gonna let you arrest them wearing a skirt, Fraser.”

     “They should have more respect for the kilt. The Scots were never entirely conquered, you know.”

     “Yeah, whatever. Go eat some shortbread.”

 

# # #

 

They didn’t say much to each other in the car. Collaring a violent suspect always involved risk; they never knew whether they’d come out in one piece, if at all. The space between them was quiet and tense.

     “You ready for this?” Ray asked.

     Fraser nodded. “Yes.”

     Fraser’s face had shaped itself into what Ray had come to think of as “The Look” — jaw clenched, eyes slightly narrowed, his alert mind concentrating on the task ahead. He was a predator in peak form: tense, coiled, and focused. A cougar in a cage.

     Ray both trusted and feared that look, that state of mind. It made Fraser heroic — and incredibly attractive, he had to admit — but it also made him dangerous. Once Fraser had decided he was right about something, he could easily get obsessed to the point of losing all regard for his own safety and drag others down with him.

      _Why are you so damn reckless_? Ray wondered.

     He glanced at Fraser, who was staring out the passenger side window.

     Was it the rush? Ray knew that feeling. The feeling of being _so_ _alive_ while Death was staring you in the face. But, no. That wasn’t it. He couldn’t just put it down to pride or an overdeveloped sense of duty, either. There was something else going on, some reason Fraser played fast and loose with his own life. The answer tickled at the back of Ray’s mind but he couldn’t quite form it into words. Not yet.

     “Admit it. You’re into this,” Ray said, breaking the silence.

     “Into what?”

     “Your job.”

     “Well it is my duty as an officer of the law to see to it that justice is served, if that’s what you mean.”

     “I mean you _really_ like your job.”

     “Well, yes, Ray. I suppose I do,” he said, and tugged an earlobe. “Most of the time. Is this line of questioning relevant to anything in particular?”

     “I’ll let you know.”

     Fraser just looked at him, nonplussed.

 

# # #

 

Ray parked outside the gates, and they did a quick rundown before heading in.

     “Proper preparation prevents poor performance,” Fraser said. “Are you ready?”

     “Yeah.”

     “Glasses?

     “Check.” Ray flipped the blue tinted lenses down over his glasses.

     “Sidearm?”

     “Locked and loaded.”

     “Warrants?

     “Here,” Ray said, patting his jacket pocket. “Got your purse, Frase?” he asked, flashing a self-satisfied grin.

     “Not without my kilt.” Fraser smiled back in spite of himself. 

     “Ok then. Pitter patter.” Ray slammed the car door and sauntered off.

     Fraser grabbed his hat off the dashboard, climbed out of the GTO, ushered Diefenbaker from the back seat, and closed the door. He spun his hat onto his head and fixed it firmly. He watched his partner as he headed towards the gates, studying the way he moved. All that chaotic energy and raw emotion bound up in a graceful swagger reminded him less of a dog — the way Ray thought of himself — and more like a sea otter sliding through the waves. The thought made him smile.

     Like an otter, Ray was fast, intelligent, playful and good with tools. He even had the spiky fur sticking out of his head like a tangle of uncut grass. Sea otters — the “wolverines of the sea" — could also, like Ray, be ferocious and violent when hunting, fighting, or….

     Fraser paused in his line of thinking…or mating. Well. He couldn’t speak to whether the analogy carried to that aspect of Ray’s personality. Also there was the glaring fact that Ray couldn’t swim, so perhaps that’s where the parallels ended. Still — even dead sea otters could leave scars, as the old mark just below Fraser’s right collarbone proved. He wondered if his human sea otter could hurt him as badly. Absently, Fraser touched the space over his heart.

     Then, turning to the task at hand, he straightened his already-straight hat, mentally shifted into Tracker-Hunter mode, and strode towards the entrance.

 

# # #

 

The festival main stage was a hive of activity as workers prepped for the first round of the Battle of the Bands. Stagehands clambered over the scaffolding like ants on a tree trunk, hauling ropes and fixing rigging, securing drapes and lights and speakers to the framework high above.

     Roadies set up music stands, mics, and instruments on the stage below. Gaffer’s tape crisscrossed the floor in a futile attempt to tame the tangle of wires and cables, and everyone on stage had to step gingerly to avoid catastrophe.

     Fiona Willison, the singer for the Sea Devills, her ankle and wrist bandaged, had hobbled up the metal steps to the stage on crutches. She was doing her best to help the crew set up for her performance, or at least stay out of the way.

     Nearby, Lake Michigan was restless.

     A storm front was moving in. Wind blew over the water, building strength before breaching the land and leaving a fine mist hanging in its wake.

 

# # #

 

Fraser and Ray first looked for Murphy at the athletic field, but the games had ended for the day. The few remaining athletes and crew were busy packing up.

     “Haven’t seen him,” the games Director said when asked if he knew were Murphy was. “Try the campground. He’s got a popup. Rides a Harley.”

     They walked around the campground looking for Murphy’s camper, stopping people and asking questions as they went.

     “Excuse me sir, may I ask you a question?” Fraser accosted a man wearing dark trousers, a slim black blazer, and a “Mount N’ Men” T-shirt.

     “What can I do you for?” he replied, eying the Mountie and the flatfoot warily.

     “I’m Constable Benton Fraser of the RCMP, and this is my colleague Ray Vecchio of the Chicago Police Department. I was wondering if you could direct us to Barry Murphy’s trailer?”

     The man’s eyes flicked to his right. “No, sorry. I’m just a musician. Well, and a manager,” he said, gesturing to his shirt. “I don’t know anyone by that name.”

     “I see,” Fraser said in a tone that indicated he didn’t believe a word of what he’d just heard. “Before you go, may I ask — what is your name?”

     “Collins. Mike Collins. If you’ll excuse me, I have to go. Battle of the bands tonight,” he held up his violin case to illustrate the point.

     “Of course. Thank you for your time.”

     The man nodded and hurried off in the direction of the main stage. Fraser and Ray watched him go.

     “He’s lying,” Ray said.

     “Yes. And did you see the ring on his finger? It’s identical to the mark on Alan MacLeod’s shoulder. Moreover, he looked that way,” Fraser pointed across the campground, “when I asked him about Murphy.”

     They ran towards the far end of the campground. There they found a small popup camper with a Harley Davidson motorcycle parked beside it.

     “Chicago P.D., open up!” Ray yelled, banging on the door of Murphy’s camper.

     No one answered. Fraser pulled out his hunting knife. With a snick of the blade he picked the lock open. Ray covered him with his drawn gun as they climbed inside to look around.

     The unoccupied camper was strewn with clothes, trash, and empty cans. It smelled of stale beer and something probably best not explored too closely. A framed photograph rested on the tiny fold-out table that served as both kitchen and eating area. The photo was of Mike Collins and Barry Murphy, champagne glasses raised and big smiles on their faces. In the picture, the two men wore matching rings with Trinity knots.

     “Aw, don’t they make a cute couple,” Ray said sarcastically.

     Fraser knelt down and started digging around under the bed. He found a bag filled with knives and tools: wrenches, a wire cutter, a crowbar, a bolt cutter — everything you’d need to wreak havoc. Then he rummaged through the sheets and moved the bed pillow aside, looking for more evidence.

     “Look at this,” he said, holding out an open black velvet jewelry box with a ring nestled inside it. The knotwork design matched the bruise on MacLeod’s shoulder, and was identical to the one Mike Collins wore.

     Ray looked at Fraser, and what he saw broke his brain. Fraser was down on one knee, holding out a ring box, looking as gorgeous as ever in that red serge uniform, his bright blue eyes shining with the excitement of the hunt. So many mixed emotions about what he was seeing flooded through him that he burst out laughing.

     “You sure picked a funny time to propose, Fraser.”

     Fraser looked completely bewildered for a split second, then realization dawned. He stood up faster than a frog on a hot stove, his face flushed. He snapped the box closed.

     “It’s evidence, Ray.”

     “I know that, you big red moron.” He had already pulled out a plastic bag and was holding it open. Fraser dropped the box into it. Ray tucked it into his jacket breast pocket, and patted it with a smile.

     “And, uh, since you asked, yes,” Ray said, shyly scratching an eyebrow.

     “Yes what?”

     “Yes, I would marry you. If, you know, you were into that sort of thing.” Laughter crinkled the corners of Ray’s eyes, but deep in his heart he knew that what he’d said was absolute truth.

     The dazed expression on Fraser’s face was priceless. He recovered quickly, though, and went into “I am going to tease Ray back by being a smartass” mode.

     “I’m gratified to know I can count on your cooperation,” Fraser deadpanned. “But right now we have an arrest to make.”

     “Yeah. But where’d he go?”

     Ray and Fraser snapped their fingers at the same time. “The main stage!” they said in unison.

     “You go after Murphy,” Ray said. “I’ll see if I can catch Collins.”

     They climbed down out of the camper and took off running.

     In the sky overhead, the approaching storm was building in strength and speed. Cumulus clouds, their edges gleaming against the darkening sky, billowed over the grounds. Leaves clattered in the trees. Branches swayed and banged together, rattling like dry bones.

     As he ran across the festival grounds searching for Collins, Ray became more and more concerned about the crowds. _Christ, there are kids here. Too many people — someone’s going to get hurt._

 

# # #

 

Fraser reached the main stage at a run.

     Fiona Willison and a couple of roadies were up on the stage trying to clip down sheet music to keep it from flying off in the wind.

     Overhead, the stage lights were swaying. That didn’t look good.

     Fraser pulled out his spyglass to get a better view. There. High up in the scaffolding. A big burly guy in a blue tartan kilt and a black T-shirt, barely hidden behind the curtain fabric. He had a cable cutter in his hand and was busily cutting the cables that secured a large lighting rig.

     “Get off the stage! Everyone, off!” Fraser shouted.

     The musicians and crew looked at him, confused by the strange man in the red jacket, but didn’t move. A couple of big guys with vests marked “Security” heard the yelling and headed towards him.

     Fraser ignored them, leaped onto the stage, and spun around on the spot to get a better view of the situation above. He grabbed the nearest strut and began climbing the scaffolding as fast as he could.

     But he was too late — by the time Fraser reached the top, Murphy had cut all but one of the cables of the lighting rig. It began to swing wildly in the wind, threatening to come crashing down and crush the people standing beneath.

     Murphy clambered down the scaffolding at the back of the stage to make his escape.

     No time to chase Murphy — Fraser had to stop the rig from falling, if he could. One thing at a time.

     Fraser clung precariously to the top of the scaffolding, the wind rocking the structure back and forth. He reached down, yanked his hunting knife from his boot, and held it tightly in his teeth as he crawled across the scaffolding. As he neared the lighting rig, he spied a long coil of curtain rope hanging on a hook and grabbed it.

     Below, the crew had finally spotted the dangling rig and began to scramble off the stage. Fiona struggled to get off the platform because of her sprained ankle.

     “Help me!” She cried, limping as fast as she could, reaching out to the crew.

     High above, Fraser had assessed the situation below. She wasn’t moving fast enough.

     He cut a long length of rope with his knife, tucked the folded blade back into his boot, tied one end of the rope to the scaffolding, and held on tight.

     Fraser jumped. Down he swung, Tarzan style.

     At the last second he reached out with one arm, snatched Fiona, and carried her out of the way to safety, just as the lighting rig crashed down. It shattered on the center of the stage, sending a shower of sharp metal and glass shards into the air.

     They reached the end of the rope’s arc and Fraser let go, sending them tumbling to the ground. Protectively, he rolled onto one shoulder so Fiona would end up on top of him rather than getting crushed in the fall. This caused the ropes to tangle around them, tying them loosely together.

     When they came to a stop, Fiona lay on him, face to face. She stared into his eyes, breathless and blushing.

     Fraser stared back, embarrassed.

     “Are you hurt, ma’am?” He asked, struggling to get up.

     She nodded no and rolled off of him. Fraser quickly untangled them from the ropes and cables and checked to see that everyone was ok.

     “If you’ll excuse me,” he said, "I have a criminal to apprehend," and started scanning the grounds for Murphy.

 

# # #

 

Ray hadn’t been able to find Collins anywhere, so he headed for the main stage in case Fraser needed help. He got there just in time to see Fraser swing down on the rope.

      _Fuck, fuck, fuck he’s doing it again. Please don’t die, please don’t die._

     Not until Fraser was safely on the ground with Fiona did Ray let out the breath he’d been holding.

     Out of the corner of his eye, Ray saw Murphy jump from the back of the stage and dive into the crowd. Ray sped off in pursuit. Murphy fled, stampeding like a bull,  knocking over vendor’s stands, kids, anything that got in his way as he ran.

     Ray pulled his gun and shouted, “Chicago P.D.! Freeze!” He knew he couldn’t fire here — too many people around. He hoped the guy would be smart enough — or at least scared enough — to stop and make this easy.

     He didn’t make it easy. Instead, Murphy ran faster, zigzagging through the grounds.

     “Damn it!” Ray tucked the gun into its holster and surged after him.

     Murphy sprinted to the edge of the Viking battlefield and headed straight for a big rack of swords, pikes, and shields. He grabbed the biggest sword from the rack and ran towards the audience that had gathered for the next show.

     Ray caught up with him, but again didn't draw his gun because of the crowd. “Give it up, Murphy!” he barked, hoping to draw his attention away from the civilians.

     Murphy moved even closer to the audience, using them as a human shield.

     Things were getting desperate. Ray had to distract Murphy, and fast. “Hey Murphy! Your boyfriend ratted you out!” he lied. Murphy spun around to face Ray, scowling. “Yeah, that’s right, you heard me," Ray taunted, "He also said he doesn’t love you! He was just using you!” That did it.

     Murphy squared off with Ray. “I’ll knack yer ballix for that, ye lying toerag!” He raised the sword high overhead.

     "Drop the sword Murphy!"

     "I'll drop it on yer piggy head!" Murphy yelled, and rushed towards Ray.

     “You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Ray said under his breath.

     The sword came down.

     Ray dove to one side so that the sword sliced through air, not flesh and bone. Then he bounced back up, ran to the weapons rack and grabbed a large wooden shield. He backed towards the center of the field, shield in front of him, drawing Murphy away from the audience.

     “You want a piece of me? Huh? Is that what you want?” he goaded, snarling and giving a sharp shake of his head. “Come and get it, skirt boy!”

     “I’ll kill ye, fecking gobshite!” Murphy roared, and swung again.

     Ray raised the shield and blocked the blow — but it cost him. The force of the impact knocked him off balance and sent him sprawling to the ground. The shield rolled away from him onto the field. He scrambled to get up and reached for his gun.

     Murphy flung the sword down and took off running again, back towards the vendor’s tents, dense with people and trees — and places to hide.

     Ray ran after Murphy as he wove and circled through the grounds. He raised his gun a couple of times but he couldn’t get a clear line of sight. There were too many civilians, too many tents, too many damn trees.

     Murphy scrambled behind a row of tents and disappeared.

     “Shit!” Ray swore. He'd lost him. Ray stopped next to a small grove of elms to catch his breath and get his bearings.

     The storm struck in earnest now, muffling the sounds of the festival in a rage of howling wind.

     Behind Ray, Murphy circled back around and hid in the cover of a leatherworker’s tent. He reached his hand down to slip a small, slim object from his sock.

 

# # #

 

Fraser couldn’t see Murphy anywhere. He jumped back onto the stage to get a higher vantage point. Once on the stage, he grabbed a length of coiled curtain rope and slung it diagonally over his shoulder and across his chest, sensing that he might need it.

     He pulled out his spyglass, scanned the grounds, and that’s when he saw Murphy: hiding behind a tent, knife in hand, arm raised to throw it.

     Ray had his back to the man and was searching the crowd.

     “Ray! Knife!” Fraser shouted, but Ray didn’t hear him over the noise. The man was too far away for Fraser to throw his own knife. He really wished he had a gun permit.

     Fraser leaped from the stage and hurtled towards the two men, desperately trying to get to them in time.

     At that instant, three unlikely things happened:

     Murphy threw the knife. It whistled through the air, headed straight for Ray’s back.

     A sudden squall tore through the park, sending leaves and branches whipping and whirling in the raging wind. A thick elm tree, roots ripped from the earth by the gale, let out an ear-splitting CRACK and began to fall, right where Ray was standing.

     Benton Fraser screamed.

     In the very next instant, three equally unlikely things happened:

     The elm tree crashed to the ground inches from Ray’s body, sending shockwaves through the earth.

     The knife buried itself to the hilt in the wood of the falling tree with a sickening thud.

     Benton Fraser’s world snapped into razor sharp focus, and the center of that focus was Ray Kowalski.

     Fraser ran to him.

     Ray was wrapped in tree branches and leaves, stunned, his mouth open, face scratched and bleeding, glasses askew and eyes wide with shock. The crown of the tree surrounded him, trapping him protectively in its grasp.

     “Ray! Ray! Are you injured?” Fraser shouted. He quickly examined his partner for any obvious wounds. There were minor abrasions on his face and hands and a small cut over his eye, but it looked superficial. “Talk to me, Ray! Say something!”

     The sound of Fraser’s voice quickly brought Ray to his senses. He nodded.

     “I’m OK. Go! I’ll catch up!” Ray pushed at the branches, trying to free himself to join the chase. “Let me go already!” he said to the tree. “Oh God, I’m talking to trees now….”

     Fraser raced off in pursuit of Murphy, who was heading towards the far end of the park, towards his motorcycle, and freedom. On the way he plowed through a group of drunk college students, apologizing profusely at their cries of, “Hey watch it, asshole!” and “Chill, Dude!”

     Fraser had to stop Murphy, but it was too far to run, even for him. Thinking fast, he darted to the horse pen and shouted, “Royal Canadian Mounted Police! I’m in pursuit of a criminal and urgently need to borrow your horse!”

     The owner, recognizing the Mountie, nodded and handed him the reins.

     Fraser leaped onto the back of the Irish Hunter and spurred it forwards with a whistle, a sharp “Hyah!” and a kick of his boots. The horse broke into a gallop, trusting the sureness of its new rider. Sensing the instant understanding between them, Fraser dropped the reins onto the pommel and gave the horse its head. The Hunter ran even faster, following the man in the blue-green kilt who dashed ahead of them.

     As Fraser rode, he gripped the horse’s flanks as tightly as possible with his knees so he wasn’t thrown. His hands were a blur of motion as he tied a lasso out of the rope while the horse thundered forward.

     Through the crowd they charged, dodging and weaving. Fraser shouted at the top of his lungs, “Out of the way! Go! Go!” as they sped across the grounds. People leapt and dove to safety, clearing a path in front of them.

     Fraser picked up the reins again, and horse and Mountie moved together as one, a streak of red and black. But Fraser’s eyes were steady, cold blue steel, focused like a laser on the man who had dared to try to kill someone he loved.

     Fraser and the horse were closing fast, hooves pounding and hearts racing. Fifty metres. Forty. Thirty. Almost there —

     In a desperate move, Murphy scrambled over the chain link fence into the sheep herding area. Undeterred, Fraser let out a loud “Hyah!” and spurred the horse on, commanding it to leap. It flew over the fence and landed with a powerful grace, not losing a second in its stride.

     Murphy dove and rolled behind a sheep pen, and nearly managed to slip through the gate behind it.

     Out of nowhere, Diefenbaker appeared, leading a howling pack of border collies that raced to intercept Murphy. They cut him off and sent him running in one direction, then another, nipping at his heels as he tried to get past. The collies had him trapped, penned like a herd of sheep, giving Fraser the extra few seconds he needed to catch up.

     Fraser twirled the lasso over his head once, twice thrice, and sent it flying through the air.

     It caught Murphy in mid-stride and yanked him violently off his feet, slamming him to the ground. He staggered to his feet and took a few steps, but the dogs encircled him, barking and growling.

     Fraser leapt off the horse and sprinted over to Murphy. He threw him to the earth with a flying tackle and swiftly trussed him up like a fallen caribou.

     “Bloody hell!” Murphy spat, tugging and writhing in the ropes that bound him. Fraser silenced him by placing a boot firmly on Murphy’s chest.

     “I am making a citizen’s arrest,” Fraser growled, his jaw clenched in anger and his voice dangerous with smoldering rage. “Remain calm and someone will be here to process you shortly.” It took every bit of restraint not to give in to his desire for vengeance and punch the man senseless.

     To Diefenbaker and the collies, he commanded, “Tear out his throat if he tries to escape.”

     “Would you be so kind as to call for assistance, gentlemen?” Fraser said to the two approaching security guards. “And keep an eye this man. He’s a dangerous criminal.” The guards gaped at him with bewildered expressions on their faces as they watched him go.

 

# # #

 

The windstorm stopped as suddenly as it began, leaving an eerie silence over the grounds.

     Fraser quickly rode the horse back to its owner. He thanked both the man and the horse, patting the animal’s flank in gratitude.

     Then he sprinted to the elm grove, where Ray had extricated himself from the branches of the tree and was calling for backup.

     Fraser barreled into him, nearly knocking him down as he wrapped him in a crushing bear hug and impulsively kissed him on the cheek. Ray dropped his phone, both from the force of the hug and from the stunning realization that Fraser had kissed him.

     “Fraser, wait!” Ray picked up the fallen phone and said into the mouthpiece, “Still there? Yeah, sorry about that. I’m being suffocated by a Mountie. Tell you later.” He hung up.

     “Sorry Ray, I couldn’t help it. I thought I’d lost you.”

     “That tree nearly killed me!”

     “That _man_ nearly killed you. The tree saved your life. I believe it gave its life for you.”

     Ray didn’t know what to say to that.

     Fraser moved to the fallen elm, and laid a hand reverently on its bark. “Thank you for saving my friend,” he said, his voice deep and sincere. He patted the trunk.

     Ray started to make a comment about this new level of insanity, but instead closed his mouth and just shook his head. Fraser understood the language of wolves, identified criminals by the sound of their tires, and could track a falcon on a cloudy day. Talking to trees? Sure. Why not. Add it to the list.

     Fiona Willison made her way to the site of the fallen tree to thank Ray and Fraser for saving her. Sea Devills bassist Jamie McAlister hovered protectively nearby, refusing to let her out of his sight.

     “Thank you for saving my life,” she said. “How can I repay you boys? What can I do for you?”

     “We were just doing our jobs, ma’am,” replied Fraser politely. “No thanks necessary.”

     “Promise me you’ll both come to the final concert tomorrow night? I’ll dedicate a song to you,” she said. “I insist. Promise?”

     They promised.

 

# # #

 

Several squad cars, two ambulances, and a fire truck later….

     A search of the grounds found Mount N’ Man manager Mike Collins stuck high in a gnarled oak tree. It took two firemen and a ladder truck to get him down. When asked how he got up there, all he could do was babble incoherently about how the tree had grabbed him.

     Sean Murray, the other Mount N’ Man, was crestfallen. “I didn’t know about Mike’s involvement in all of this,” he told Ray. “I had no idea. I just want to make music.”

     “Did you know that Mr. Murphy and Mr. Collins were, um. They were sort of engaged?” Ray asked.

     Sean’s jaw dropped. “Mike? And _Barry_? But Mike and I… we were…” he was near tears. “I thought we had something special.” He began sobbing so loudly the collies heard it all the way across the festival grounds. They howled in sympathy.

     A little later, Barry “The Murph” Murphy sat handcuffed to a picnic table while Ray grilled him like so much meat on a hot barbecue. What Ray really wanted to do was give that motherfucker a Kowalski House Special kick in the head for endangering Fraser’s life on that stage, not to mention trying to murder him with a stupidly named Scottish dagger. He would have, too, if there weren’t so many witnesses around.

     “Turns out that guy Mike Collins from the Mount N’ Men band paid Murphy to do the dirty work,” Ray told Fraser after Murphy had been carted off in a blue and white. “Who pays their fiancé to try and murder people? How sick is that?”

     “Very sick, Ray,” Fraser agreed. “I’m reminded of a story involving the Postmaster of Tuktoyaktuk and a polar bear….”

     “Not now, Fraser,” Ray cut him off. He was angry. Fraser’s casually flippant tone — like nothing had happened — was too much to deal with. Ray couldn’t just let it go either. He jabbed a finger in his friend’s face. “You’re a maniac, Fraser. Why the hell’d you swing off that stage like that?”

     “I had to save Miss Willison. There was no other way.”

     “There’s always another way. Why’re you so damn reckless? You never stop!”

     “You’re overreacting. I was just doing my duty. No one was hurt.”

     “You could’ve been killed!” Ray’s voice trailed off. “Not this again. I am not doing this right now,” he snapped. His heart ached and his head felt like it was full of angry bees. He needed to get away from Fraser before he gave into the urge to sock him. He had to calm the helpless panic he felt at nearly losing him _again_ , and he had no idea how but to run away.

     “Ray, just listen to me….”

     “Leave me alone!” he barked, his eyes blazing, and stormed off. He headed towards the parking lot to talk to the other officers who were pushing Collins into a car to take him for booking. Distraction. Focus on the job.

     Stunned, Fraser stood in silence and watched him leave.

     “Let the Yank go, Son. Give him some space.” Bob Fraser’s ghost appeared by Benton’s side.

     “What was all that about?” Ben asked, gesturing towards Ray’s receding back.

     “Don’t you know?”

     “No, Dad. I don’t. If I did I wouldn’t be asking.”

     “Then you’re blinder than I thought.”

     “Thanks a lot. That’s really helpful.”

     The ghost shook his head, shrugged, and vanished.

# # #

 

Fraser gave Ray some space. By the time the other first responders had cleared the grounds, Ray had calmed down enough that Fraser felt it safe to approach him. He tried a peace offering.

     “Want to get something to eat?” Fraser took off his hat and plucked a folded bill from the inner band.

     Ray sighed. “Yeah. Sure. I’m starved.” He put on a smile but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. “But I refuse to eat anything green,” he quipped, “I’m kinda tapped out on leaves for today.”

     “As you wish.” Fraser was relieved to see Ray joking, but his restless movements and fidgeting hands betrayed him. The earlier distress still bubbled beneath the surface. It made Fraser both worried and wary.

     They bought food at the stalls: grease-soaked fish and chips (with an extra side of chips) and a souvenir glass full of Guinness for Ray, boiling-hot tea in a foam cup and shepherd’s pie for Fraser. They wandered the grounds for a while, looking for an open table.

     “Shepherd’s pie,” Ray said, eyeing Fraser’s food dubiously. “More like mystery pie. Maybe pie with shepherds in it,” he giggled.  
  
     “Are you sure the tree didn’t hit your head?” Fraser chided.

     “Give me a break. I nearly got iced twice today. I figure I’m entitled.”

     Fraser winced at the reminder and backed off.

     An empty picnic table in the shade of a massive spreading oak beckoned, and they sat down to eat.

     Fraser took his hat off and set it on the weathered wooden table. He was exhausted and still traumatized from watching the person he cared about most in the world nearly get murdered by a knife and crushed by a tree — at the same time. The shame of his own failure to prevent any of it tore at his heart. He scrubbed at his face and let out a long-held breath. He massaged his temples and ran his fingers through his chestnut brown hair, messing it up a little.

     Ray watched Fraser run his fingers through his hair, and smiled inwardly at that, secretly wishing they were his own hands. He wanted to stay furious at Fraser for being reckless, but he just couldn’t, not with him looking tousled and beautiful like that. Getting to see Fraser slightly disheveled — a glimpse of the wildness that lurked beneath the reserved façade — was rare. It made Fraser seem more boyish, which somehow made him even more charming and attractive than usual, which wasn’t fair and shouldn’t be possible, really. But Ray enjoyed it anyway, sneaking glances when he thought Fraser wasn’t looking.

     “Cheers.” Ray held up his beer.

     “Cheers,” Fraser replied, and tapped his tea to Ray’s glass.

     They drank.

     Fraser leaned his head back to admire the crown of leaves overhead, and the way the afternoon sun lit them up like a green stained-glass cathedral. He looked across the table and noticed the way the light created golden halos around the spikes in Ray’s hair. It reminded him of the way tundra grasses glowed in autumn, limned by the first frosts. His fingers twitched with a sudden urge to run his hands through it, but he restrained himself and stole three of Ray’s fries instead.

     Ray stuffed fried fish into his mouth, eating hungrily. He ate most of his chips, too, smothered in ketchup — except for the ones that Fraser stole from him. He was glad he'd ordered extras.

     Diefenbaker snuffled around under their table, eating the tidbits that Ray dropped.

     “Diefenbaker. What have I told you about junk food?” Fraser scolded.

     Diefenbaker huffed at Fraser's hypocrisy.

     Fraser studied the soggy chip in his own hand, cocked his head to one side and sighed, resigned. So much for being the alpha dog in this relationship. He gave the treat to the half-wolf. He took a long drink of his tea from the disposable cup and grimaced. The liquid tasted of musty leaves mixed with a touch of melted plastic.

     “So. Are you going to put in your report that a dryad saved your life?” Fraser asked.

     Ray studied Fraser’s expression, and wondered for the thousandth time if he was being teased or if the Mountie was serious. He opted for serious.

     “You trying to get me fired? This is Chicago. You know, the windy city? It was a freak wind. Put fairies in my report, you might as well just shoot me.”

     “Well, that would be homicide, Ray. But it’s your report. Do what you want with it.”

     Fraser’s gaze roved over the scratches on Ray’s face and lingered at the now-bandaged small cut over his eye. Every cut and scratch raked across his heart and the shame of them burned.

     “Are you sure you wouldn’t like some salve for those abrasions?” he asked, reaching for the pouch on his belt.

     “Nah, I’m good. That stuff stinks,” Ray answered. He polished off the rest of his food, wiping a chip around on the plate to get the last bits of ketchup.

     Fraser stared into his cup and became very quiet.

     To Ray, everything about this dinner felt off. This was supposed to be a celebration, of sorts. They’d collared the bad guys and nobody died. Fraser should be telling stupid Inuit stories and showing off his vocabulary, while Ray bragged and goofed around. But no. Fraser looked as miserable as Ray felt.

     “You OK?” Ray asked.

     “Yes.” Fraser tugged his earlobe and didn’t look him in the eye.

     “Liar.”

     “I don’t lie.” He lifted his chin, challenging.

     “I’ve been humping this job a long time. I know when somebody’s lying.”

     Fraser bristled and opened his mouth to object, but Ray persisted. “You lie by omission. You pretend like you don’t know stuff when you damn well do.” He pointed an accusing finger, “And you talk all the time, but you don’t really say anything.”

     Fraser closed his mouth.

     “So I am asking you again,” Ray said, rising to full interrogation mode, his hand threatening to curl into a fist, “as your partner…” Ray softened and said, more quietly, “as your _friend_.”

     “I should be asking you that question.”

     “Not this time, Fraser. Give it to me straight. Are you OK?”

     Fraser surrendered. “No, I’m not, actually.”

     “What, like, are you hurt?” Ray’s face tensed with concern.

     “No, no, not physically,” Fraser said. “It’s just...” He traced the rim of his cup. “Murphy almost killed you today and I wasn’t there in time to stop him.” The guilt in his voice was so thick you could walk on it.

     Ray placed a hand on Fraser’s arm and squeezed it tightly. “It’s not your fault. You were busy being a stupid hero. Besides, you saved my ass plenty of other times.”

     “As have you, mine. But I should have been there for you _this_ time. You’re my partner. I’m sorry.” Fraser put his hand on top of Ray’s and held it there.

     “You’re being too hard on yourself, Frase. People try to kill me multiple times a week, sometimes twice in one day,” he joked. “It’s in the job description.”

     An anguished look crossed Fraser’s face.

     “I’m OK. Really,” Ray tried to reassure him. Reluctantly, he pulled his hand back and poked at the condensation on his beer glass.

     “I’d never forgive myself if anything happened to you.” Fraser said, and looked into Ray’s eyes. Through them. Distraught.

     Warmth flooded Ray’s chest, and he smiled. “Likewise.”

     “I’ve been thinking lately….”

     “Oh, you don’t want to do too much of that,” Ray interrupted with a smirk.

     “Please. I’m trying to say something here.” Fraser looked serious, so Ray bit his tongue. “I’ve lost so many people.”

     Ray nodded. It was true, as far as he knew, but Fraser didn’t talk about it much. In a sense, it was though he carried the desolate and empty distances of the North deep within his heart. The traumas of his life had left uncrossable ice chasms in his psyche, separating him from warmth and acceptance — and love. Even when it was staring him in the face.

     “I know,” Ray said. Ray understood this implicitly. He knew firsthand what that kind of loss and loneliness could do — had done — to a person, to him. It could drive you to do really stupid things.

     And then, something clicked in Ray’s mind. _Death_. And _Love_. That was it — the thought that had been scratching at the back of his brain earlier that day. Death and love were one and the same to Fraser, inextricably knotted together in his mind. It explained so much. _Holy shit that’s dark. No wonder he’s so reckless. He thinks he_ _’s got nothing to lose._

     Ray stared at Fraser, unsure of what to do with this insight.

     Fraser stared at Ray, as if trying to decide something important.

     “I couldn’t…. You…. We….” Fraser said, fumbling for words.

     Fraser was almost never at a loss for words. This was bad.

     Fraser fiddled with his cup some more. Then he clenched his jaw, looked down at the ground, rubbed the bridge of his nose and sighed deeply.

     “I’m so tired,” he said, his voice nearly cracking.

     “Yeah.” Ray reached out to squeeze Fraser’s forearm again. He suddenly wished he had a blanket to wrap around his shoulders, even though the evening air was still warm. Fraser looked like he needed it.

     They sat in silence for a minute, listening to the gentle breeze as it caressed the leaves overhead. It was Fraser who interrupted the stillness.

     “You know, Ray, I’m reminded of the words of Scottish classical guitarist David Russell, who said, ‘The hardest thing in life is to know which bridge to cross and which to burn.’”

      _Well, that was cryptic,_ thought Ray. He didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing.

     When Ray didn’t respond, Fraser changed the subject.

     “How’s your beer?” he asked, eyeing the thick brown liquid with the two inch foam head that filled the glass.

     Ray rolled the glass between his hands and took a tentative sip of the Guinness. “It’s like...I don’t know, like drinking liquid bread,” he said. “I’m not too sure about it.” He set the glass down and licked his lips, but a bit of foam mustache remained.

     “You’ve got some on your mouth, just there,” said Fraser. He reached to wipe it off with the tip of his thumb, his fingers gently cupped underneath Ray’s chin.

     The caress sent a jolt of electricity through Ray’s skin all the way to his knees. His mind froze and all sensation in his body focused on a single point: the edge of his upper lip, which tingled from the heat of Fraser’s thumb.

     Fraser pulled his hand back and without breaking eye contact, licked the foam.

     Ray was mesmerized — it was the most erotic thing he had ever seen. Unbidden, he suddenly found himself aroused, which was the last thing he’d expected given the heartbreaking nature of the conversation they’d just shared. This whole situation was surreal. Did Fraser have any idea what he was doing? Was he really that clueless? And if he wasn’t clueless, what the fuck was that about? Ray had an almost overwhelming urge to either yell at him or to lean over the picnic table and kiss him. Or both.

     They locked eyes, sky blue riveted on storm blue, searching each other’s faces, barely daring to breathe. Ray thought he might drown in those deep blues...but what a hell of a way to go.

     Fraser blinked first. He tilted his head to one side then the other, making a loud cracking noise with his neck. His cheeks were flushed bright pink. “Oh, will you look at that, a white-throated sparrow,” he said, stammering and pointing up into the tree overhead, as though he’d just discovered the most fascinating thing in the world. “ _Zonotrichia_ _albicollis_. Did you know that their song is often interpreted as ‘Oh-sweet-Canada-Canada’?”

     Ray gave a little cough and looked away, grateful for Fraser’s babbling. He picked up his beer and drained the entire glass without stopping for breath. It took three napkins to clean his mouth afterwards.

 

# # #

 

That night, back at his apartment, Ray danced alone to the soundtrack from Casablanca.

     “I know what I saw,” he said to Turtle later that evening, watching it chew on a piece of lettuce. “The look on his face. I know that look. I just don’t know whether to trust it. Maybe I’m just seeing things.”

     Turtle had no comment.

     An hour later as Ray drifted off to sleep, his body curled into a tight question mark under the bedclothes, he thought about that caress, and that conversation, and what it all meant, if it meant anything at all. His instincts were all over the place, tied in knots, leaving him frustrated and confused.

     And what the hell did Fraser mean about the bridge, _burn it or cross it?_

     “Do that thing…that thing you were doing with your mouth,” he mumbled in his sleep.

 

 

# # #

 

That night, back at the Consulate, Fraser carefully sharpened his hunting knife and tucked it back into his boot scabbard.

     He turned the events of the day over in his mind. He thought about Ray’s intense anger at him for being careless with his life yet again, even though he’d only been doing his duty.

     He replayed the ridiculous accidental moment in Murphy’s camper when Ray had said yes, even though Fraser hadn’t really asked him. Even if it was a joke. Which maybe it wasn’t. Maybe, just maybe, Ray felt something for him, too.

     He thought about the look on Ray’s face when he had dared to touch his soft pink lips. He knew that look — and what it meant. He’d seen it before. Many times. On many faces. But to see it in Ray’s eyes….

      _Burn it or cross it?_ Was there a difference? Did it matter? Was it worth the risk?

     “What do you think, Dief?”

     Diefenbaker grumbled.

     “Well, you’re no help,” he said. He walked to the closet to see whether his father’s ghost was home, but he was nowhere to be found. Gone ice fishing, probably.

     “You’re no help, either,” he sighed and switched off the office lamp.

     Fraser fell asleep on his cot with his hands behind his head, contemplating the ceiling and listening to Dief snore.


	6. Last Dance

As promised, on the final night of the festival, Fraser and Ray returned to watch Fiona and the Sea Devills perform. They’d left Dief with Turnbull at the Consulate and decided to make an evening of it. The two partners stood at the side of the soundstage, listening and keeping watch.

     Fraser was dressed in his full red-kilt-and-sweater ensemble. Ray wore a red v-neck T-shirt under a black leather jacket, motorcycle boots, and…Fraser’s RCMP Regimental kilt.

     “I can’t believe I let you talk me into this, Fraser.” He prayed that no one else he knew was at the festival. He’d never live it down.

     “Shush. You look fantastic.”

     “I will haunt you from beyond the grave.”

     “I look forward to it, Ray.” Fraser paused for a long second then asked, “Commando?”

     Ray smirked and folded his arms. “That’s for me to know and you to ponder.”

     Fraser laughed.

     The two surviving headliners, Selkie Coast, and Fiona & The Sea Devills, had agreed to split the cash prize in a gesture of goodwill. In a final show of unity, the bands came together to perform as one — casts, crutches, bandages, and all. They took to the stage to raucous cheers.

     “It’s good to see you, Mr. MacLeod,” Fraser said to the Selkie Coast drummer. “Are you sure you’re up for this?” he asked, pointing to his bandaged shoulder.

     “I’m on enough pain killers to roofie an elephant,” he replied, smiling. “I’ll be fine for awhile. The show must go on. Besides, I had to be here for my mates, you know?”

     Fraser nodded. He knew a thing or two about loyalty. “I’d say break a leg but in this case it seems superfluous,” he joked.

     “Indeed!” MacLeod laughed. He clapped Fraser on the arm and bounded up the steps to join his band mates.

     Despite looking like a ragtag group of wounded soldiers, the musicians managed to put on a triumphant grand finale performance that lasted well into the night. The singers’ sweet voices, backed by thumping drums, pounding base, and high-spirited pipes and fiddles, filled the air of the festival grounds.

     One song ended, then Fiona introduced another:

     “This one’s called A Kiss in the Morning Early, and tonight it’s dedicated to a couple of everyday heroes. I wouldn’t be here today without them. Cheers, boys, you know who you are,” she said, and winked at them.

     Fraser and Ray waved back at her, and the band kicked off a rousing rendition of the reel.

     Fraser grinned when he recognized the tune. He sang along in his robust baritone, belting out the lyrics and enjoying the lightheartedness of the song. Ray was both impressed and a little bit annoyed, because of course Fraser knew the all words. The audience started clapping, stomping, and gyrating around them in a rainbow-hued sea of plaid. Ray drummed his fingers against his thigh and tapped his foot in time to the music.

     “Are you sure you don’t want to go out there and dance?” Fraser asked, looking at Ray with so much pride and affection that Ray’s heart skipped a beat.

     He was about to say, “Not a chance,” but the words died in his throat. Because _what the hell._

     Before he could change his mind, Ray grabbed Fraser by the hands and dragged him into the swirling crowd.

     “Ray. No. I didn’t mean me...Ray!”

     “You gotta trust me, Frase. We’re partners, remember?”

     “But what do I do?!” Fraser shouted over the din.

     “Pretend you’re dog sledding!” Ray yelled. “Gee!” he shouted, and they spun right. “Haw!” and to the left they went, kilts twirling around them.

     Ray whirled, jumped, and skipped in a circle, mixing in swing-dance moves and a little Latin cha-cha for the heck of it, pushing and pulling Fraser along for the ride. Fraser did his best to keep up, following Ray’s graceful movements and verbal cues, trying his hardest not to trip them both.

     Fiona sang out:

     “O Father, o Father, I've got me a man

     And he is the one I would wed if I can

     As handsome as ever in leather did stand

     For my kiss in the morning early.”

     As they danced, the last week disappeared. The danger, the near-death experiences, the greed and betrayal and the stink of bad guys melted into a blur of movement and sound. Around and around they spun in time to the music.

     They laughed and smiled and laughed some more, lifted by the song and the warmth that flowed between them. The tune built to a climactic crescendo and stopped on a crashing high note. The audience burst into applause.

     Fraser and Ray hugged each other tightly, panting and patting each other on the back, huge grins on their faces. Ray moved to let go but Fraser pulled him even closer, breathing into his shoulder. Ray could feel Fraser’s heart pounding through the scratchy wool of his sweater. He could smell the sweat on his skin, too, and it was more than a little intoxicating.

     When they finally pulled back from the embrace, Fraser cocked his head to one side, touched his tongue to his teeth, and made a decision.

     “Come with me,” he said.

     “Where?” Ray asked.

     “To cross a bridge.”

     Bob Fraser’s ghost smiled and watched them go. “Good luck, Son. Try not to blow it this time.”


	7. Burn It or Cross It

Fraser led Ray away from the dance floor, around the back of the stage and away from the crowd, to a sheltered copse of trees. Moonlight filtered through the branches of the leafy grove and dappled their faces with silvery shadows. Fraser took off his hat and hung it on a branch. Without it he seemed less civilized, wilder — and more vulnerable.

     “I see no bridges here, Fraser. Just trees. No bridge.”

     Fraser turned to face Ray and took his hand. Ray swallowed.

     “Thank you for the dance. That was fantastic,” Fraser said, his voice soft.

     He gently stroked the callused skin of Ray’s palm. Goosebumps rose on Ray’s skin. Fraser raised the hand to his lips and pressed a gentle, open-mouthed kiss to it, right where Ray had pricked himself with the letter opener days before.

     The formal yet intensely sensual gesture took Ray by surprise. A shiver ran down his spine all the way to his toes. They sure did things differently in Canada.

     “Yeah,” Ray said, his breathing shallow, “it was.” He slid his hand out of Fraser’s grasp and laid it on the back of the Mountie’s neck. The tips of his trembling fingers grazed his hair, barely daring to touch. He could feel the warmth of Fraser's skin, the slight sheen of sweat he’d worked up from dancing.

     Fraser responded by raising his right hand to cup Ray’s face. His eyes were dark, his pupils dilated. And then Ray saw it — The Look. The predator. Tense, coiled, and focused. A cougar in a cage. Focused on _him_.

     The atmosphere crackled between them.

     “I think you’ve got something on your mouth, just there,” Fraser said, lightly tracing a thumb over Ray’s bottom lip. The touch sent a jolt of electricity straight to his abdomen. “Besides,” Fraser said, his voice low and rough, “You still owe me some air. Quite a bit as I recall.” Fraser licked his lips and glanced down at Ray’s mouth. “I’m calling in your debt.”

     Ray’s breath hitched in his throat. He had gone very, very still on the outside, but inside his mind was racing. This was happening, it was really happening. But… Why? Why now? Why _him_? Then suddenly, unbidden and out of nowhere, a tsunami of doubt and shame crashed over him. He felt sick.

     “I don’t get it.” Ray blurted, the words piercing the night air. He dropped his hands to his sides and hunched his shoulders.

     “What?” Fraser asked, stunned by the rejection. He, too, hastily lowered his hands and took a step backwards.

     “You. This.” Ray squirmed and flailed his arms. “This makes no sense.” His stomach coiled in knots like a nest of angry vipers. _Definitely gonna be sick_.

     “Oh dear.” Fraser’s face crinkled with horror and he blushed to the tips of his ears. “I’ve made a terrible mistake. I thought….” He snapped to attention, his back straight and rigid as if he were wearing the serge. He set his jaw and his face fell into the polite dispassionate expression he reserved for those he didn’t know. “I’m sorry. I should go.” He turned to leave.

     Ray began to panic. He’d fucked up again. “No, no — wait — I didn’t mean it like that,” he implored, reaching his shaking hands towards Fraser but grabbing only air.

     Fraser stopped. “What did you mean?” He nervously tugged his earlobe.

     Ray rubbed his face and took a deep breath. “You. You’re…like some kind of Greek god,” he punctuated the words with his hands. “You can have anyone. Hell, you could have _everyone_. So I don’t get it. Why…” he looked straight into Fraser’s eyes. “Why me.” It was a statement, not a question. “I suck.” he said, slashing his fist through the air for emphasis.

     Fraser studied his friend’s face, and his heart broke with the self-loathing he saw there. How could he not know his own value? How could he not see how attractive, loyal, smart and strong he was?

     “Ray. Ray. You don’t suck,” Fraser said, his voice soft and soothing. He reached out to put a hand on his friend's arm, but Ray flinched like a startled rabbit. Fraser’s hand froze and hovered in midair. _Hunting requires patience._ He lowered his hand and slowly took a half step backwards. _Sometimes you have to let your quarry come to you._

     “I do suck. You don’t want this,” Ray went on, faster now, agitated. “Me, I mean. You can’t.” The words felt like grit in his teeth. He tugged at the neck of his t-shirt. Every fiber of his being wanted to run -- run and fight someone and get so drunk he couldn’t feel his face anymore.

     “But I do,” Fraser insisted.

     “Not possible.” Ray looked up again, his eyes narrowed in challenge.

     “Shhh,” Fraser said gently, and paused to think. He needed to calm this frightened animal, but how? Ah. “Do you recall the day we met?”

     “Never forget it. And?” Ray asked, his tone suspicious.

     “Do you remember what happened?”

     “A deaf wolf stuck its tongue in my ear. I got burned up, blown up, drowned, shot, and then you asked me to dinner. At one point you, um, you touched my inner thigh and that was...interesting, except for the, you know, all the other stuff.” He allowed himself a small smile. “Hell of a first date.”

     “You took a bullet for me, and you didn’t even know me.”

     “Just proves how stupid I am.”

     “No, Ray. It proves how big your heart is. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I think that I,” Fraser stammered, waving his hands in a helpless gesture, “that is to say, though I’ve never been very good at expressing myself, I think that I might…”.

     “Spit it out, Frase.”

     He took a deep breath and tried again. “I think that I...,” he was having trouble breathing. This was harder than he anticipated.

     “What?”

     He screwed up his courage. “I think I loved you, even then.”

     Ray couldn’t believe it. “You what?”

     “You heard me.”

     “You loved me?” Ray’s voice was a mixture of hope and surprise. He took a quarter step towards Fraser.

     “It does happen, you know.”

     Ray hesitated. “You'd better not be fucking with my head. ‘Cause I don’t think I could forgive you for that.”

     “I’m not.”

     “But, uh, I didn’t know you leaned that way,” he shuffled his feet and looked down, then back up again. “This way.” He gestured with his hand, waving it back and forth between them. “Screw it — you know what I mean.”

     “It surprised me too, but I’ve known for a while. I just don’t feel the need to discuss my private life with anyone.”

     Ray nodded. Amen to that. “You sure about this?”

     “Yes. I’m sure,” he said, his voice full of sincerity and tenderness.

     Ray took another quarter step forwards.

     “But what about, you know, all those women...?”

     “Ah. That.”

     “Yeah.”

     “Well, I have to admit that I have experienced, shall we say, _intemperate_ levels of attraction to many women who turned out to be untrustworthy. But they didn’t really see _me_. They saw the uniform, or what they wanted to see. But you do. See the real me, I mean. And yet you still seem to want me around in spite of it, for some reason.”

     Ray took a half step forward. “You still find me attractive?”

     “Oh, yes. _Very_ much so.” Fraser risked a smoldering look. Ray took another half step. So close now. Close enough to touch.

     “But why? I’m old, I’m broken, I have experimental hair, I don’t do words right, I.…”

     “Ray. Ray,” Fraser’s voice was low and soft. He tentatively wrapped his arms loosely around his friend’s shoulders. Ray didn’t flinch, but Fraser could feel that he was trembling. “You are my partner and my friend.” He looked deep into Ray’s eyes. “And I’ve come to understand through a great deal of trial and error — mostly error — that I don’t want anyone else. I want _you_. All of you. If you’ll have me.” He placed his left hand on Ray’s chest, right over his heart. He reached his other hand up to trace Ray’s mouth with his thumb again. “You have to trust me on this.”

     Ray cast his eyes down, then looked up again through his long dark lashes, a shy smile on his face. “Really?”

     “Really.”

     Ray wanted to believe. Needed to believe. His pulse was pounding and his whole body was vibrating. He searched Fraser’s face and only saw kindness and love. And lust. Definitely some lust there, too.

     “So. May I?” Fraser asked in a very-polite-yet-dark-as-chocolate voice.

     Ray looked at that beautiful mouth and heat pooled between his thighs. His body knew what it wanted. His heart also knew what it wanted, even if his mind didn’t think he deserved it. Ray decided to trust, just one more time. He gave the barest nod.

_Yes._

     Fraser leaned forward, tilted his head...then wavered for an instant, hovering an inch away, his own uncertainty catching up with him. This was crossing the last line, blowing up the car, no going back...and they both knew it. His hot breath teased Ray’s lips.

      _The hardest thing in life is to know which bridge to cross and which to burn._

     Sensing Fraser’s hesitation, Ray grabbed two fistfuls of Fraser’s sweater and whispered into his mouth, “I’m trusting you. Now cross the fucking bridge.”

     Fraser snapped. The wild animal, unmuzzled and unchained, sprang forth.

     Like a starving beast going in for the kill, Fraser lunged and captured Ray’s lips in his own. He kissed him hard, fierce and urgent, stroking with the tip of his tongue, asking permission once, twice. _Let me in let me in._

     Ray closed his eyes, groaned and opened to him. He felt Fraser’s hot tongue on his own, tasting him, exploring, mapping this new terrain with a tracker’s efficiency and a lover’s insistence.

     Fraser slid one hand around to cup the back of Ray’s neck, pulling him forward, the other hand clutching his leather jacket.

     Ray plunged his long, slender fingers into the thick mane of Fraser’s hair, surrendering to the desire he’d resisted for so long. It felt soft, like some kind of exotic fur, and he tangled his fingers in it with wanton abandon. He tugged Fraser’s head forward and kissed him, again and again, all tongue and teeth and stubble burns be damned.

     Fraser began moving in earnest now. He spun them around on the spot and pushed Ray backwards, pressing him up against the trunk of a large ash and bracing himself with one hand. Ray’s hands were a blur of motion — roving, sliding over Fraser’s well-muscled back, tearing at his clothes, fingers caressing along the waistband, sliding down the thigh.

     “Ray,” Fraser breathed his name into his neck in a voice that was like molten lava wrapped in velvet. He covered Ray’s face with hot, wet, open-mouthed kisses, savoring the taste of salt on his skin and breathing heavily.

     He shoved his hips hard against Ray’s own. Fraser’s sporran pressed between them, blocking access and creating a frustrating combination of sensations. Fraser reached his hand down and pushed it roughly aside, then traced his fingers up and down the front of Ray’s kilt, teasing him and making him twitch. Ray let out a moan and bucked into his hand. In response, Fraser grabbed Ray’s backside, slammed his hips into him and began thrusting hard and fast against him.

      _Oh God_. Fraser’s erection moving against his own through their clothes nearly made him pass out. Ray grabbed Fraser’s kilt-covered ass in return, locking their hips tightly together.

     Fraser groaned loudly. He braced his arms against the tree, pushing back, gasping for air. Kissing was good, fantastic, but he wanted more, so much more.

     He leaned forward again and moved his mouth over Ray’s jaw, nipping and biting, and roughly tongued his ear. Then he licked down the curve of his neck, following the taut tendon down to the collarbone. He could feel Ray’s pulse pounding under his tongue and it ignited an almost savage bloodlust in him — not to harm, but to consume, to devour. His hands slid up under Ray’s T-shirt, exploring the wiry, tight flesh of his muscles and massaging every inch of skin.

      _Christ_ , Fraser’s hands were hot. _He’s a goddamned furnace,_ Ray thought. Fraser's fingers and mouth burned Ray’s bare skin everywhere they touched, searing the memory of each caress into him like a white-hot brand: a mixture of pleasure and pain, fear and ecstatic joy.

     “Stop,” Ray gasped. “Fraser. Ben. No. Not here.”

     Fraser ignored him, which was a very un-Mountielike thing to do. _Not good._ He sucked on Ray’s throat again and flicked his thumb across Ray’s hard nipple, sending a spasm through his body.

     Fraser was driving Ray out of his mind, blinding him with desire, drowning him in lust and taking them both under. He wanted this. God, he wanted this. More than anything. But not here. _Not here_. Panting, Ray made a muffled sound and tried to push Fraser away.

     “Ben.” Ray reached up and grabbed Fraser’s wrist, trapping it tightly his grip. “We’re…” he hissed as Fraser nipped his jaw. “We’re gonna get arrested.” The expression on his face was serious.

     Ray felt Fraser’s free hand press hard on his arousal through the cloth. He moved his hand again, and began to hitch up Ray’s kilt, sliding a palm up his thigh. At the same time, Fraser put his mouth right next to Ray’s ear, and said in a low growl,

     “To hell with the law.”

     This had the effect of simultaneously sending a raging fire to Ray’s cock, and setting off massive alarm bells in the part of his brain that was still functioning.

      _Holy fucking hell_.

     He’d never heard Fraser curse before, let alone in the name of dereliction of duty. Ray had heard the rumors — that when it came to love-lust-death, Fraser had a reputation for going off the rails. And here he was, speeding headfirst towards disaster.

     But Ray loved him too much, wanted this to work too much, to let Fraser lose his mind or worse.

     Time to take back control of this train wreck.

     “We’re leaving. _Now_. Don’t make me arrest you for public indecency,” Ray warned.

     Fraser stopped and slid his palms up to rest around Ray’s waist. “I’d like to see you try,” he dared him, his voice heavy with lust.

     “That’s it. We’re done,” Ray announced.  “You’re unhinged.”  _Fraser’s acting like he’s drunk,_ he thought _._

     “You said you’d try anything….” Fraser arched an eyebrow.

     “Yeah, anything. But not here.” If they kept this up Ray was going to lose his own last shred of control. Fraser hadn’t just crossed a bridge; he’d torched the thing behind him with a cruise missile.

       _Do what you gotta do. Treat him like a drunk_ , Ray told himself. He couldn’t believe it had come to this but here they were. He grabbed Fraser by the shoulders, pushed with all his might and spun him around. He plucked the Stetson from the tree branch and shoved the hat unceremoniously onto his own head. He pushed Fraser out of the grove and frog-marched him towards the festival exit gates. Fortunately for both of them, Fraser didn’t resist.

     They hightailed it out of there in the GTO, back to Ray’s apartment, breaking multiple traffic laws along the way. And Ray didn’t give a shit about that because Fraser was rubbing his inner thigh and teasing him the whole time, nearly causing him to wreck the car twice.

     What happened next is for them to know and you to ponder, except for this: It began, as many things did, with a wish. It ended, as many things do, with love. And along the way, some bridges were crossed, other bridges were burned, and the cycle of three — life, death, and rebirth — continued, unbroken.

 

The End.

**Author's Note:**

> Original Characters: 
> 
> Band name: Selkie Coast  
> Alan MacLeod, drummer
> 
> Band name: The Mount N’ Men  
> Sean Murray, percussion, vocals  
> Michael (Mike) Collins, fiddle and band manager
> 
> Band name: Fiona Willison & the Sea Devills  
> Fiona Willison, singer and fiddler  
> Jamie McAllister, Sea Devills bass guitarist
> 
> Highland heavy games athletes:  
> Amy Winchester  
> Barry Murphy


End file.
